


Tell Me

by felix_atticus, xJuniperx



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Contemporary AU, Domination, Is verbal voyeurism a thing?, M/M, Sexual Content, Submission, Voyeurism, birthday fic, flangst, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 20:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/felix_atticus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/pseuds/xJuniperx
Summary: Graves decides Credence would be better off with someone his own age.He never expected Credence to listen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cymbelines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymbelines/gifts).



> Happy birthday to our beloved Cymbelines! Hopefully this story makes you clutch your pearls a few times. We adore you, and wish you all the best, and until we can afford to give you the world, we give you this.  
> All our love!

I have one shoe on when he says, “We’re not going to do this anymore.”

           I’m not sure what he means, so I just look up at him. I’m in the chair closest to the exit. Usually I would never take my shoes off in the apartment. Of  _ course _ I wouldn’t. But when we came through the door after dinner and I went to unlace them, he stilled me with a hand to my chest and beckoned me forward. Not even a word, just that single finger of his crooking me onwards and I went where he wanted. How could I not?

           Then he sat down and watched while I slowly removed each article of clothing, the only words he gave,  _ slower _ or  _ good _ . I hear that I’m good, and I light up like it’s Christmas, or what I imagine Christmas might be like. And when you’re lit up, you don’t worry about things like, my shoes are dirty because they’ve been outdoors and now they’re on the rug of his beautiful apartment.

           Now I’m worrying about it. But they were already here, close to the chair, and my legs don’t exactly feel sturdy. I wear that with a weird mixture of shame and pride and I can’t pick out which I feel more. Except with him, it becomes easier to feel like they’re balanced instead of just this constant sense of ‘something is wrong with me.’ He does that to me.

           He’s just standing inside the doorway from the bedroom, fastening his cuffs. I take a moment to…appreciate, I guess is the word. Look at him. He’s just out of the shower (I went first, and he didn’t join me this time, which I wasn’t happy about, but maybe he will next time) and already he looks perfect. I mean, I don’t know if there’s ever a moment where he hasn’t looked perfect to me. Even when I’m under him and we’ve managed to knock the lamp askew somehow so the light is weird and his face screws up when he comes inside me, he still looks perfect. As always. As always.

           He’s in his slacks and a fresh dress shirt that has no creases, a feat I can’t manage. I think I’ve wrinkled every single thing that I own. I don’t know if he does it with magic or if it’s just him. Like the force of him is so much that his clothes wouldn’t dare do a thing he didn’t tell them to first. I know that’s silly—I’m ridiculous, I am a ridiculous person—but he projects this…thing. I don’t even know how to describe it.

           Power? I think that might be what it is. I’ve never known another person with power before. When you haven’t encountered something before, I guess it takes awhile to realize what it is. Or maybe I’m just oblivious. It’s probably that.

           His hair is still a little wet, the only sign that he just left the shower. I wanted to be in there with him. I wanted to be brave enough to run my hand from his chest down the line of hair that travels lower and lower, but I’m usually not. Besides, I like it better when he holds me up in the shower and leans me into the spray. I like when he decides what I do.

           I like that a lot.

Graves looks at me and says, “We’re not going to do this again.”

I don’t understand what he means. I don’t understand a lot of the time when people say things. It probably has a lot to do with how I was raised—okay, it has a  _ lot _ to do with that—but I try not to let on when I don’t understand. The problem is, people can always tell. My face doesn’t hide much.

Usually he doesn’t seem upset when I don’t understand. That’s one of the reasons why I’m comfortable with him. Why he’s probably the only person I’m comfortable with. But this time he sighs and my guts clench. Like everything inside me has twisted. I can’t even name all the things inside me but I think they’re in knots.

He nods towards the bedroom, a quick tilt of the head, and says, “This was the last time.”

I don’t…

I don’t understand.

I mean—I understand what he’s saying but—no. No, why is he saying that?

What did I do? I’ve done something. I did something wrong. I don’t know what it is, but I have to fix it. I will. I  _ have _ to.

I’m trying to figure out how today was different. What did I do? We came back here after dinner, he had me take off my clothes—I crawled to him across the floor. He picked me up. He’s strong enough to do that, he picked me up and carried me to the bedroom and it was so  _ good _ , my bare skin against all his clothes and feeling how strong he was through the fabric and and he called me his baby boy and I was happy—an hour ago I was happy, how is this happening?

I laid under him and he straddled my hips and I watched while he took each piece of clothing off and it was perfect, it was enough to make me squirm. I went when he rolled over and pulled my face down into his lap, because of course I did. I do what he wants, I  _ always _ do what he wants.

What did I do? I followed instructions, the instructions he didn’t even have to give. It’s not like when this first happened and he had to tell me exactly what to do, words that I thought would kill me, obscene things that felt like they should burn when they hit the air. Now all he has to do is move a hand or tilt his head a certain way and I  _ know _ , I know what he wants me to do, or I thought I did, because what have I done wrong?

I don’t know if he can read my mind—some people can read minds, that was a thing I didn’t know until he told me—but Graves says, “You haven’t done anything wrong, Credence.”

Don’t say that to me. Not in that soft voice. The same voice he used the first time I met him and I was going off. He still tells me it’s not my fault and I was starting to believe him—I should have been taught about my magic, I should have been taught like the others—but right now, right now I think everything must be my fault.

He finishes doing up his cuffs, and slips his hands into his pockets. He leans against the doorway, looking at me. He is so calm. And I am in terror. I thought…stupid me. Stupid me, I thought that I meant something to him. I mean—I know he cares, I know that, but I’ve always known I care  _ more _ , because who would care about me? There’s been no reason for him to—I’ve always felt like at any second he would realize I’m not worth his attention, and now it’s happened.

Oh my god, it’s happening. He finally realized.

“I want to be very clear. You haven’t done anything wrong. Credence, look at me.” I’m looking at his chest and not his face. I can’t look at him. I can’t look at him and see that he doesn’t want me. “I said, look at me.”

So I do, because he told me to. And I always do what he tells me.

His dark eyes are kind, and that makes this worse. Don’t be kind to me when you tell me that you don’t want me. I’ve never understood why he touched me at all, but I don’t need to hear that he doesn’t want to again. I’m already dying.

“This is not your fault. It’s mine.”

It is my fault. I’ve done something. I’ve done something and now he doesn’t want me.

Graves gives his head a shake and says, “I crossed a line. I’ve done that a lot with you. From the start.”

The start. The start, when I was an exploding thing and he came to stop me and instead of putting me where no one would ever see me, where I wouldn’t hurt anyone, he said he could show me how to control it. This thing inside that I tried so long and hard to pretend wasn’t there.

He was the first person to be kind to me. The first person who said that I wasn’t a freak, that what I had was normal. That I could be taught. That I could control this.

He’s the first person I think I’ve ever trusted.

And now he doesn’t want me.

“I took advantage.”

“No—“

“I did,” he says firmly. “And I don’t feel good about that. I shouldn’t feel good about that. I knew it was wrong when things changed, but…” He smiles at me slightly. “You are so lovely. You are so very lovely, and I couldn’t help myself.”

I am not. Don’t say that. Don’t say things like that to me when you’re saying you don’t want me anymore. That’s what you’re really saying, what you’re really saying is that you don’t want me.

Graves stands up taller. “That’s no excuse. I’m an adult. I’m twice your age, and ‘I can’t help myself’ isn’t a reason. Not in the situation we’re in. You were vulnerable, and I behaved badly. I have behaved badly, repeatedly, for months, and that’s—I’m sorry, Credence. I shouldn’t have done this to you, and I’m sorry.”

My insides are still churning. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to speak.

I don’t want to hear this. He didn’t take advantage. He  _ showed _ me. He showed me so many things. I’ve learned so much, and done so much, and before him—before him, I was just a tangle of wires and some of them were electric and some of them were burning and sparking and some of them were just dead. I don’t feel like a tangle anymore. I don’t feel like a tangle, because of  _ him _ . He did this for me, and he’s talking about this like something bad happened between us.

What happened between us is the first good thing to happen in my entire life.

“This doesn’t mean that…this doesn’t mean that I’m not fond of you. That you don’t mean something to me. You do. More and more. That’s why I need to stop being so selfish and put an end to this. Because I don’t think you know that there’s more than this. You deserve that, and I don’t intend to be the one who holds you back.”

I have to speak. If I don’t speak, he’s the only one who will, and maybe I’m not used to saying what I want—unless he tells me to, unless he orders me to tell him what I want—but this isn’t normal, this isn’t anything I’ve done before, so I have to say something.

What do I say to make him keep me?

I struggle to say, “I don’t—I’m not being held back—“

“You are,” Graves says, and everything that comes out of his mouth is confident, like always, and how am I supposed to argue with that? “You just…you haven’t seen enough of the world yet to know that. I’ve kept you from that. I’m sorry. I should never have…”

He trails off.

He never does that. He never does, and that’s when I realize that he isn’t going to change his mind. I’ve almost never seen him change his mind, but I hoped—I had to hope.

Except he means all this. He means it. He doesn’t want me anymore.

“Please,” I hear myself say. My throat is closing. My throat is closing and I feel this current running through my body, down my forearms, not like I’ve felt for months and months. Not since he taught me that I could control this. “Please…”

I’m about to cry. I know it. He doesn’t want me, and I will be alone, and so I am going to cry, like the idiot nothing that I am. That’s why he doesn’t want me. He’s figured me out. He’s figured out what I’ve really been all along.

Nothing.

“No,” Graves says. He walks the few steps between us and crouches down in front of me. He runs his hands over my thighs and leaves his hands there and I want him to keep touching me, but if he doesn’t want me anymore, every touch could be the last one and how am I supposed to say goodbye to that? This electric thing inside—oh no. No no no. Graves speaks in a low, steady voice, looking up at me unblinkingly. “Credence. This is not a punishment. Do you understand?”

No. No, I don’t understand.

Graves rubs his thumbs back and forth and any other time I think it might soothe me, but all I can think is that this is the last time he’ll touch me and I want to die.

“Listen to me,” he says, and it’s in that tone of voice.

The one that I  _ have _ to listen to. He uses it and every muscle in my body relaxes a little, because he’s going to tell me what to do. I don’t want to relax, but when he talks like that—he does it and I can’t help myself.

“I am not doing this because I don’t want you. I am not doing this because I don’t care about you. I care about you very much.” He reaches up, brushing some of my hair away from my forehead, then leaves his hand on my cheek, forcing me to look at him. “Tell me that you understand that I care about you.”

Don’t say that you care about me. That makes this so much worse.

“I understand,” I say, and my heart is nothing but cracks opening up.

“I am the one who’s done something wrong—Credence, I said  _ listen to me _ .” That voice. That voice, why do I have to listen to it? Why has he always done this to me? Graves looks me right in the eyes, and I want to look away but I can’t. I can’t, because he wants me to look at him. “You know that when we met, there were a lot of things you didn’t know, but I did. About magic, about life, about a lot of things. I tried to teach you what I could, but I acted badly.  _ I _ —acted badly. Not you. You have done nothing wrong. Tell me that you understand that.”

No. Please.

“Credence. Say it.”

I am vibrating inside. “I have done nothing wrong.”

He lets out a little breath, and why should those words make him feel relieved? “There are still many things I know that you don’t. And that’s because I’m older, and I’ve seen more. Credence, I’m twenty years older than you. I should have known better. I should have, and I still let this happen—I didn’t let this happen, I made it happen. Again and again, and that is not fair to you. It is in no way fair to you, and I…” He lowers his eyes, and for the first time I see a hint of shame there, of frustration, and I want to scream. I want to scream because this is my one good thing, and he feels  _ bad  _ that it’s existed. “I was the adult here. And I fucked this up. And I am very sorry that I did this to you.”

He isn’t going to change his mind. I know he’s not. I think about the things that I could do—cry, beg—but they wouldn’t make a difference. He’s decided. He’s decided, so this isn’t going to happen again.

I’m lost. So I say, “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Pity. The pity on his face for me—I’ve never minded it because it was better than disdain, and disdain is what I’ve always gotten from everyone else.

“I want you to have the experiences other people your age have. You’re not the same person you were when we met. You have control of your magic. You don’t have to be afraid. I want you to live your life. The life you deserve. I want what’s best for you.”

_ You’re  _ what’s best for me. If I scream it loud enough inside my head, maybe I can make him listen.

But he’s decided.

Graves gives my cheek a pat, then pulls away from me, and my body instinctively leans towards him as he goes. Because that’s the last touch. I know it.

He stands up, and says, “You need to meet people your own age. Be with people your own age. Find someone who can learn things with you. That’s how things are supposed to be.”

I don’t care about  _ supposed to be _ . I care about lying in bed with him after, when everything hurts and everything is lit up, my head on his chest and hearing the way it pounds so hard inside, knowing it’s because of what we’ve done. I care about that. I don’t care about people my own age. I don’t even know how to talk to them—he’s the only one I know how to—

“Once you find someone your own age to be with, you’ll understand. You’ll understand what I’ve kept you from. I hope you won’t hate me when you figure it out, but—I wouldn’t exactly blame you if you did, Credence.”

Hate him? What insane universe are we talking about? I could never hate him. I don’t know what this thing I feel for him is because I don’t have the words to wrap around its endless borders. It’s too big for me to put one word on. All I know is that he’s everything to me and it’s over.

“I don’t—I don’t want to be with someone my own age—“

“Credence—“

“I—I don’t even know how to—I don’t  _ want _ —“

“You don’t know what you want. I haven’t let you figure that out for yourself. So now I’m telling you to.”

_ No _ —

His voice changes again, becomes that thing I can’t fight against. “Credence. I am telling you what you’re going to do. You will meet people your own age. Find a man your own age. This is over. You need to take care of yourself. You need to do this. If not because it’s what’s good for you, then because I’m telling you to do it. Say that you understand.”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to, but he’s telling me to.

“Say that you understand, Credence.”

“I understand.”

“Tell me what you’re going to do.”

Hollow, I whisper, “Meet someone my own age.” The thought makes my skin crawl. I’m  _ his _ . I am his, and the thought of someone else’s hands on me—that he wants that. Why does he want that? “I don’t even…I don’t know how to meet people like that.” And it seems like a stupid thing to say, but I don’t know what the right thing to do or say here is.

__

Graves lets out a little half laugh, leaning back against the doorframe again. “The same way everyone else does. Go to a bar, join a club. Go online. There’s a lot of ways to meet people.”

__

The thought of going out—where all those strangers are. Strangers, who don’t know me, who wouldn’t even see me. I would just be an invisible thing, and I don’t know what’s worse, being invisible or being seen.

__

“I don’t…” I clear my throat. “I don’t like places like that—“

__

“Credence. Go to a bar. Meet someone.  _ Try _ .”

__

And because I don’t know what to do, because he’s told me to do something, I just say, “Okay.”

__

I say okay because what else can I say? I don’t make the rules here. I never have. He is in charge here, and that’s what I have loved about this place and him. He knows what to do, he tells me what to do, and doing what I’m told makes things inside untangle. Doing what he tells me is the only time things are clear.

__

He’s not going to tell me what to do anymore. This is the last thing he’s telling me to do.

__

I’m supposed to find someone my own age. I’m supposed to touch someone else and he’s supposed to touch me. I’m supposed to touch someone who isn’t  _ him _ and I don’t want that. I don’t want that so much that it feels almost vicious inside me.

__

Except even though he’s taught me a lot of things, arguing isn’t one of them.

__

So I’ll do as I’m told.

__

“Is this…” If I cry, I don’t care. I don’t care, because there’s nothing else to lose. “Is this the last time I’ll ever see you?”

__

Graves studies me, and I wonder if I’ll choke. Because I realize that yes, I think this is the last time I’ll ever see him—

__

“Of course not,” he says, and now I might cry from relief. “I told you. I care about you. I want to make sure you’re all right.” He presses his lips together, thinking for a moment. Then he inhales. “We’ll still have our dinners. We just won’t come here afterwards. All right?”

__

Once a week. I’ll still see him once a week. I could melt into the chair from relief.

__

The relief lasts a second, because it doesn’t take away the fact that he’s no longer mine. If he ever was. I guess he wasn’t. But I’ve been  _ his _ , completely.

__

“All right,” I murmur.

__

           Graves nods. “Good.” Then he shifts, and I can tell by his posture that it’s time for me to go.

__

I realize I still only have the one shoe on. I manage to put the other one on, even though I’m not sure how my hands still work. My fingers are trembling as I do up the laces.

__

I push myself up, and my legs are unsteady. It’s because the world has upended and because I can feel all the aches where he was and they become one thing and I wonder if I can still walk.

__

I can. I go to the door, and Graves follows. He puts his hand to the back of my head, and kisses my forehead. Oh God. His hand on me, his touch so confident, and his breath against my skin. My eyes flutter closed. Please don’t let me go. Please don’t.

__

He lets me go, saying with a little smile, “You’ll be fine.” He opens the door, and I step out into the hallway.

__

The door closes behind me.

__

Fine. He says that I’ll be fine.

__

I do what I’m told, but this time—this time I think he’s wrong.

__


	2. Chapter 2

Early in his career, just after having advanced into a position of meager authority, Graves was called to a home roiling with chaos. Ear-splitting whistles of children’s screams and cries twined around the resonant boom of adults shouting orders to get back, stay back, don’t come any closer. An absolute calm had fallen over him the moment he arrived. This was exactly what he was made to do - deescalate, desist, detain. 

It’s why he’d been promoted so quickly. Amid pandemonium was where he came most alive, was the most actualized version of himself. Not simply  _ allowed _ to take control, but  _ expected _ to. There was no mayhem he could not set to order, and with style and flair, at that. It may not have earned him many friends as a youth, but his firm hand had made him the shining star of the DMLE. He was head of the department within eight years after graduating. A record.

And so that day, with a steady countenance, he stepped smoothly into the fray.

With a small team of three at his back, Graves entered the living room of a rather quaint townhouse to find a semi-circle of people, wands out and shaking, exchanging pained looks. Before them was a small, snarling creature. A crup, Graves recognized immediately. He’d had one growing up. But this one - there was something terribly wrong. Hunched down as if poised to strike, the beast was almost blurry from the amount of magic emanating from it. It’s fur was on end and seemed to be sparking, magic jumping from tip to tip, popping off it in bursts. Red eyes, foam at its lips, struggling to take in great heaves of air. The adults were doing nothing more than maintaining a shield. Two of them were crying.

A present, he’d been informed. This was a birthday party. Graves couldn’t think of a more disappointing gift. The recipient, a nine-year-old girl, had fallen in love with it instantly. An hour later, that joy turned to horror. They asked him - could he save it? Could he put it back to normal? It didn’t take him long to ascertain that no, he could not. He’d tried every countercurse he knew. Stunning spells bounced off it like light off a mirror. Something had been done to it that couldn’t be undone. Not in time to save it, anyway. It was too volatile. It had to be put down.

He thought of Cadmus, the scruffy companion that stayed by his side for over two decades. He looked at the crup in front of him, dangerous as ever despite his efforts, and thought only of failure. Then he rounded up the civilians, led them outside, and instructed his team to take care of it.

When it was done - when Herzfeld told him it was done - he went back inside to find a still mass underneath a sheet. A strange despair washed over him - it was only a beast, after all. He approached it, his body heavy, his feet dragging. He had to be sure. It was his job to be thorough and he needed to confirm it with his own eyes. Crouching down, he set a trembling hand on the corner of the sheet. He’d no doubt it was dead. After all, that was his instruction. It wasn’t the beast’s fault, but it had to die. At that point it’d been in everyone’s best interest, including the suffering animal’s.

Finally, after several long minutes, he curled his fingers into the cloth and lifted, just long enough to glance at its lifeless eyes. Dropping it abruptly, he stood, turned his back to the poor creature and walked away.

Last week had felt just like that - except this time, he was both the crup and the one who ordered its execution. Now, sitting across from Credence at their normal table, bathed in the same softly-lit ambiance as always, steam rising from their familiar meals, he knows he needs to pull back the sheet once more. He needs to be thorough. Who is he if not thorough? But just like then, Merlin help him, he doesn’t want to. If he doesn’t see evidence of its death, perhaps he can go on believing it’s still living. That it’s not too late.

“How’s your fish?” he asks after a long swallow of wine.

His boy -  _ no, not his _ , he reminds himself for the dozenth time already that evening - glances up at him from his lap, and for a horrible moment Graves expects to see eyes as lifeless as that crup’s had been, so many years ago. But of course he doesn’t. They’re the same, shining and expectant, as they were the day Graves met him.

“Good. It’s always good,” Credence says, though he’s hardly done more than pull apart its flaky layers with his fork, nudging them around his plate. Graves might’ve chided him for it - he likes to see the boy full and nourished - but he’s trying a more hands-off approach these days. And besides, he’s hardly touched his own steak.

“You could always try something else, you know. There’s plenty on the menu I’m sure you’d like.”

“I like this,” Credence replies quickly, then stabs at a chuck of pink flesh and shovels it in his mouth as if to prove as much.

Graves nods, feeling his mouth quirk up at one corner. He’s not surprised. Credence always orders the same thing, ever since the very first time, when Graves recommended the salmon. The routine had fallen together so effortlessly. Each week, after a lively and often grueling hour of magic lessons, they would come to this very restaurant. They would sit in these very seats. Credence would order salmon and Graves would order filet mignon, and they’d smile at each other across the table until their plates were clean.

For some time, that’s all it was. Then it was more.

After two more silent bites, Credence’s gaze returns to his lap and, absurdly, Graves misses it. Credence is sitting mere feet from him but he feels a hundred miles away. He feels the urge to bridge the gap with words, trying not to think about how the silence never needed to be filled before.

“So, have you been--”  _ well _ , he was going to ask.  _ Have you been well? _ But asking how Credence has fared in the last week suddenly seems much too close to lifting the sheet. “--practicing?”

Credence nods, smoothing his napkin in his lap. Then he adds, quietly, “I have.”

“Good. What have you been working on?”

Credence only shrugs. He doesn’t lift his eyes. Could he still be so upset? It’s not as if Graves couldn’t see the naked pain on his face when he’d told him their arrangement would be changing. But things had to change, Graves could see that plainly. Truth be told, he’d known that long before he’d actually done anything about it. When Credence had developed enough mastery over his magic that he no longer required Graves’ constant tutelage, it seemed a good time to put an end to… their other sessions, as well. Credence was no floundering, unbridled child. He was a young wizard with a bright, expansive future. Graves would see to it. Even if it meant giving up…

He clears his throat, and then says, “Credence,” the words solid and sharp on his lips.

Finally, Credence lifts his chin, meeting Graves’ eyes. Graves’ chest constricts.

“Tell me what you’ve been practicing.”

“Cleaning,” Credence says, after a short pause. “I’ve… I’ve been trying to do all my chores only using spells.” When Graves gestures for him to elaborate, he continues, “Scouring and scrubbing charms. Levitating things back where they go.”

“That’s excellent, Credence,” Graves says, swelling with gratification. He’d come so far. At the beginning, Graves set out to arm him with the magical competence of a first year student. Just enough to give him an outlet for his magic. Just enough so that he wouldn’t be a threat. Before long, he was mastering second and third-year spells. Under Graves’ instruction, his achievements were almost too numerous to count, his enthusiasm unparalleled. Every win for him was as much a win for Graves - Credence would get lost in awe of his own accomplishments. He’d look at Graves as though he were the sun, and then, soaking in the rays of Graves’ pride, he’d unfurl and bloom. Maybe that’s what did it. “And your wandwork? Have you been keeping up with it?”

“Yes, I go through the drills every day. I…” Credence stops to gnaw at his lip. Graves cuts off another piece of steak and chews thoughtfully as he waits for Credence to continue. “I actually… think I did some wordless magic the other day.”

Graves swallows, and can’t mask his astonishment. “Did you really?”

Credence sits a bit straighter in his seat and nods.

“Well, go on. What was it?” Graves asks, not missing Credence’s hesitance to elaborate.

“Er, Reducto, I think,” he says, looking down to scoop up a forkful of mashed potatoes.

“What do you mean, you think?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly think of the  _ spell _ , but… I still managed to… blast something away from me, without saying anything,” Credence says, wincing slightly.

A tremor of wariness rolls through Graves. That’s not how wordless magic works, and they both know it. “That doesn’t sound like wordless magic. That sounds like losing control. You’re better than that, my boy,” he adds without even thinking.

Credence puts down his fork, potatoes uneaten, and drops his hands back into his lap. “I know. I’ll be more careful.” He looks almost guilty. Too guilty for a so small a lapse, really, and Graves yearns to offer some relief.

“I know you will. You’re a very talented young man, and don’t you ever forget it. Look at me,” he appeals, and Credence is quick to obey. “Your magic can’t own you, right?”

“Right.”

“And why is that?” Graves asks, soft but serious.

“Because it’s mine. I own my magic,” Credence recites. 

It was one of the first lessons Graves ever taught him, and perhaps the most important. Dominated by his mother, possessed by his own power, Credence had all the autonomy of a prisoner when Graves found him. He vowed to shed Credence of all of his shackles, to see that he belonged only to himself from that moment on. Until one day, with Credence kneeling at his feet, Graves realized that somehow he had become the very thing from which he sought to protect the boy. Credence shouldn’t belong to him. Credence should only belong to himself. He deserves better than what Graves was offering. So much better.

Yet here, now, hearing Credence say those words - he owns his magic, no one else - Graves is so charmed that he can’t help but to say, “That’s right. Good boy,” and it’s so natural, so easy to tell Credence that he’s good. He is.

The softening of Credence’s expression, the gentle slumping of his shoulders as he hears the praise, is so obvious. Every instinct inside of Graves tells him to reach out. To reinforce his words with a stroke of a cheek, the squeeze of a hand. He doesn’t move, however. He punctuates his words with an encouraging smile instead, trying to ignore the profound sense of loss.

A sudden uncertainty strikes him. Now that their arrangement has changed, he’s not sure exactly what to do. These dinners used to be foreplay for them, laced with anticipation of what was to come. Conversation doubled as flirtation. Dessert was savored, a thrilling, agonizing tease. Now it’s just dinner. Graves drains his wineglass and promptly refills it, taking another sip.

“So,” Graves begins, figuring he may as well get to the root of Credence’s little slip-up. “Why do you think your magic got away from you just then? That hasn’t happened in quite some time.”

Credence’s face twists for a moment, eyes going distant as if recalling a memory. Sheepishly he admits, “I was mad.”

Graves hums sympathetically. “And then what happened?” he asks, instead of asking why. He’s sure he knows why Credence was angry. He’ll need time to adjust to the idea of their new situation. He’s disappointed - it’s not altogether surprising that he acted out. Graves remembers having quite a few outbursts at Credence’s age.

“Well, I… couldn’t find anything to wear. So I, sort of, exploded my wardrobe.”

Now that, Graves hadn’t quite expected.

“What do you mean, couldn’t find anything to wear? You’ve never mentioned needing new clothes,” he says, brow furrowed. He notices movement and glances down to see Credence wringing his hands in his lap. When he looks back up, Credence is no longer meeting his eyes.

“I needed something to wear to…” Credence trails off, then takes a deep breath, the rest of his words coming in a rush, “...to go out.”

And with that, all of the air leaves Graves’ body. So they’ve arrived at it. He’s kneeling in front of the dead crup again, every muscle tensed as he does everything he can to avoid lifting the sheet. Yes, he told Credence to do it. But he wasn’t prepared for the reality that Credence actually would. He doesn’t want to know and yet, goddamnit, he needs to.

“I see,” he says, as he and Credence reach for their respective wine glasses at the same time. Credence is still working on his first, but takes an enthusiastic gulp. He used to make a face when he’d drink wine. Graves tries to remember when he’d stopped doing that. “And did you?” he asks finally.

“What?”

“Go out.”

At that, Credence flushes scarlet. He leans back in his chair, practically folding in on himself, and Graves burns to know why. Is it because he was successful, or because he wasn’t? Eyes boring into the tablecloth, Credence gives a brief, tight nod.

“And where did you go?” Graves leads.

“To… well, I found… there was this place,” Credence mutters through clenched teeth. “A club.”

“A club?” Graves repeats dully. He knows he should be more encouraging at this moment, but he’s still too stunned. He told Credence to do this. And he did.

“Yeah, um… Veela’s Hideout? I saw an ad for it - in that magazine you gave me.” Credence’s blush becomes, impossibly, even more pronounced, and Graves manages to pull himself together at the sight. He started this. He can’t fall apart now.

“I take it you found something to wear, then,” he says, keeping his tone light. 

To his relief, Credence smiles a bit at that, and then laughs, “Yeah.”

Graves wants to know exactly what he was wearing. Other people - other men - saw him. What did Credence look like to them? He bites his tongue before he can ask. He doesn’t want this to turn into an interrogation.

“So what was it like?” he asks instead.

To his surprise, Credence’s head shoots up, eyes wide. “What?” he asks in a breathy voice.

“The club. What was it like? Did you have a good time there?”

“Oh,” he says, visibly deflating. He keeps his head up this time, at least. “It was so loud, and really warm. And too dark.”

Graves laughs, a short burst through his nose. He puts on his warmest smile and says, “That about sums it up, doesn’t it?” He takes another sip of wine, having long forgotten about his half-eaten meal. “Did you dance?”

“Not really. I didn’t really like the music,” Credence offers.

So, perhaps a club wasn’t the best suggestion. He has to admit, in his mind’s eye, Credence does seem fairly incongruous with that environment. He supposes he’d known that when he suggested it, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. That’s how it was done when he was young. He’s not quite sure how the kids do it these days.

A part of him feels guilty, having pushed Credence into something that seems to have gone poorly. Another, more selfish, part of him floods with relief. “So what did you do?”

“I had a drink,” he answers. “A whiskey sour, like you get. That was good. And then I sat at the bar for a while.”

So he’d sat, he drank. All in all, not bad for his first - and presumably his last - time. “I’m very proud of you, Credence,” he says with full sincerity. “It was very brave for you to put yourself out there.”

“You told me to,” Credence cuts in.

“I did. I asked you to try, and you tried. That’s very good,” he adds softly. He knows he can’t, but Graves wants to hold him. He wants to stroke Credence’s back and tell him that even though he didn’t like it, he did well. That maybe he’ll get used to it. That maybe next time will be better. That he’s marvelously obedient, and that Graves is so pleased with him.

“You… you told me to meet someone my own age,” Credence says then, as if clarifying, halting Graves’ train of thought. A chill races up his spine, getting lodged in his chest.

Up until that very second, it hadn’t even occurred to Graves that Credence may have successfully pulled someone. Or, more accurately, that someone had pulled him. He just… hadn’t considered it. Not in any real way. His hands clench into fists on the table’s surface, and so he deliberately flattens one palm, then reaches to fiddle with the stem of his wineglass with the other hand, twirling it between his fingers.

He’s rather proud of the casual lilt to his voice when he asks, “And did you talk to anyone?”

“A few people came up to me. They were all - pretty nice,” he says, with a non-committal shrug.

_ A few people _ . Of course they did. Wide-eyed and tenderfooted, unmarked by the calluses formed from frequent visits to that sort of place, (saying nothing of his effortless beauty,) he must have drawn them like a magnet. Graves quickly works to school both his reaction, inside and out. He told Credence to do it. He told him to. He can’t be upset that Credence did well for himself. Naturally he did well. Graves knows better than anyone how desirable his boy can be. 

No.  _ Not _ his.

“Did any of those people buy you a drink?” he asks. That’s what he’d do, he thinks. If he saw this beautiful young thing in a place like that, he’d be first in line to do it.

Credence’s shoulders are hunched, head slightly bowed, but he’s meeting Graves’ gaze through his fringe. He knows Graves prefers for Credence to look at him when they speak. He tucks some hair behind his ear, but it falls right back out. “A couple.”

He’s begun to lift the sheet, but he hasn’t lifted it all the way. He hasn’t seen the lifeless eyes yet. He could still let go. Credence only said he’d talked to them. Talking and drinking. Harmless. He doesn’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. He should just stop asking questions. Now is the time to stop.

“Was there anyone you particularly liked?” Graves’ face goes hot as soon as the words leave his mouth, and he finds himself thankful for the dim lighting.

Credence swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing, pronounced, in his throat. His lips work soundlessly for a few long seconds before he finally says, “I guess.”

He told Credence to do this. He was right to tell him to. He repeats it over and over in his mind.

But to do - what? What had Credence actually  _ done _ ? With sudden clarity, he realizes how brief and nebulous Credence’s answers have been, and it makes his stomach turn. He takes another swig.

“That’s - that’s fantastic, my boy,” he says, voice coming out too loud at first. “I’m glad to hear it.” And it’s true, in a way, despite the punched-out feeling in his lungs. Credence’s eyes drop back down to the table.

“And did you and he have - fun?” Graves asks. It just comes out. Fun could refer to any number of things. He figures he’ll let Credence interpret the question.

“I did what you told me to do,” Credence says impassively, resting an arm on the table, reaching to fiddle with the corner of a paper napkin. He begins balling it between his fingers, and Graves is struck with a pang of remorse.

“Credence, I told you to to meet new people because I want you to have new experiences. Regular experiences, that any young man your age might have. You’re meant to enjoy yourself. If you’ve done that, you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.” Unthinkingly, he lays his own hand over Credence’s, stilling it. It’s cold, he notices at first, before noticing that it’s not just Credence’s fingers that have gone still, but his entire body. Slowly, he pulls back. “You’ve done just as I asked of you, my boy. Just as I asked. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

He sees Credence flick him an uncertain look, and he’s reminded of the very first time he asked Credence to perform magic with his new wand. Credence had been hesitant, scared to find out what he was capable of. But Graves had pushed him, and look where he was now. He was flourishing.

“Go on,” he nudges. “You and this boy. The one you liked. You can tell me.”

“Well he… he was talking to me. About the music. He didn’t like it either. And… he told me he was new in town. Told me about - about how he just moved here from Ohio.” There, he pauses to bite his lip. It’s vaguely distracting, and Graves feels a prickle of impatience.

“Sounds like you got along pretty well, that’s excellent. Then what?”

“Then he told me his name.”

“Which was?” he asks, then immediately and powerfully regrets it when Credence says  _ Nathan _ in a low, quiet voice, transforming the mere amorphous concept of this man into a living, breathing person. 

“And then?” he presses. He can’t seem to stop. 

“He asked me if I wanted to dance,” Credence says, ripping the tiny paper ball off the corner of the napkin, setting it aside, then starting the process again.

“And what did you say?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Then what did he do?” Graves listens. Intently. His heart is pounding in his chest but he hardly dares to breathe, for fear of missing a single word, even though he knows. He knows what happened next. He can feel it coming off Credence. He can read it all over Credence’s face.

When Credence doesn’t answer, it’s answer enough. But Graves needs to know. He  _ needs _ to. He’s the one who told Credence to do this. He’s the one who sentenced the crup to death.

“What did he do, Credence?” he asks again in a tone that he knows brooks no argument.

Credence is shredding his napkin in earnest now, but he inhales quick and deep and says, “He took my hand and brought me to the bathroom.”

Just like that, the sheet is lifted. And what’s underneath is undeniably dead. 

To be on the safe side, Graves pulls out his wand and throws up a quick silencing charm around them. The only thing worse than hearing this himself, is the idea of anyone else hearing it. This information is  _ his alone _ to share in, even if Credence isn’t.

_ Nathan _ . He thinks about who this man might be. Maybe, Graves imagines, he’s the polar opposite of Credence - tan and blonde, lean. The opposite, but just as good-looking. Attractive enough for Credence. Strong enough for him. He hopes this  _ Nathan _ \- even in his mind it sounds scathing - was everything Credence deserves, but at the same time, hates him for it if he was. Did this boy even realize the value of the gift he’d gotten? Probably not, and Graves hates him for that, too.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asks plainly. It seems like the most pertinent question. He perks up his ears, preparing to detect any lies or half-truths.

Credence pauses, but when he says, “Yes,” he does so without clear conviction. What Graves sees in his countenance looks much more like shame than dishonesty. It’s a look he’s well-acquainted with on Credence, though one he hasn’t seen in a while.

“It’s alright,” he’s quick to say. “Credence. It’s alright. I’m glad you enjoyed it. That’s what I wanted for you.” 

Just then, Graves glances down to see that his hand is resting on top of Credence’s again. He doesn’t remember putting it there, but neither does he remove it. He simply can’t stand to see shame written across Credence’s face. With a gentle squeeze, he says, “Tell me. Tell me what you enjoyed about it.”

“It felt good,” Credence replies, his voice sounding a bit far-off.

“What felt good, my boy?” he asked, and can’t help but notice he sounds rather far-off himself. He’s not sure why he’s even asking, except that - it occurs to him in pure and simple terms, that someone had made Credence feel good. Someone that wasn’t him. Someone who doesn’t know Credence’s body the way he does, the parts that make Credence gasp and shudder, but who managed to make him feel good nonetheless. All of a sudden he’s a starved man, greedy for the details.

“When he - touched me,” Credence says shyly, and something roars inside of Graves, prowling back and forth, caged and agitated.

“He touched you,” Graves repeats matter-of-factly, really hearing it, absorbing it. “And you touched him?”

“Yes.”

“Because I told you to?” He isn’t sure which answer he even wants to hear.

“And because I wanted to,” Credence says, and it sends a thrill shooting through him to hear Credence assert himself that way. 

He’s suddenly assaulted by a stark mental picture. Credence pressed up against a stall door. Credence’s hand wrapped around a thick cock. Credence’s eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. He can hear Credence’s breathy moans and whines, transplanted from his memories. He hates that it’s not him in the image, but that doesn’t seem to be enough to prevent him from getting hard, his own cock straining in his pants.

“Did he get on his knees for you?” He hears himself ask, and he’s surprised to hear the deep rasp of his own voice.

“We…” Credence wavers, turning his head away just a fraction. “We got on our knees for each other.”

And he detests the idea of sweet Credence on that filthy floor, in that cramped and dingy space, being used by someone that doesn’t even, can’t even,  _ know _ him. But he’d told Credence to do it, and he hadn’t given much by way of comprehensive instruction. And Credence said he liked it, so.

Still, it aches to think about. Right in his chest and crawling up his throat, it burns. He never should have asked, and he knew that. But that’s him, isn’t it? That’s who he’s been since the start of all this. Just a man who knows better, and still makes poor, poor choices.

And worst of all, through the hollowing pain, through the ringing in his head, he finds himself wondering with a savage ferocity -  _ did he come? _ For a long moment it’s all he can think about. The words are on the tip of his tongue.  _ Did you come? Did he make you come? _ But miraculously, at last, he manages to make one wise choice, and swallows the question down.

Shaking himself, he releases Credence’s hand, then moves to throw back the remainder of wine in his glass. He’s still hard, but he’s also angry with himself in a way he can’t pin down, and he’s ready to be done with this conversation.

“That sounds very nice,” he says after the silence has stretched on long enough. “I’m happy to hear it went so well.”

When he looks at Credence again, Credence is looking right back at him, his head tilted. 

“Mr. Graves?” Credence asks carefully, studying his face. “Are you… are you sure that-”

“I hope it goes just as well the next time,” Graves interrupts, before he loses his nerve. “If not better. You know what they say about practice. It’s just like with your magic.”

Credence mouth snaps closed. He only hums in reply.

Pulling his wrist up to his face, he looks at his watch without really reading it, and says, “I think it’s time to get going. All finished?”

“All finished,” Credence says. 

Graves takes one last look at him in the warm light. If this was before, they’d be on their way to Graves’ apartment now, tension thrumming through their veins, heat fluctuating between them. But this isn’t before. And that’s for the best. It’s been less than a week since Graves let him go, and already he’d managed just fine. Yes, he’s sure, this is how it needs to be.

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”


	3. Chapter 3

I don’t like salmon. I order it every single time we come here because the first time we did, I was overwhelmed by the menu, which didn’t even have prices on it, half the things written in another language, and when he saw that I was panicking, he said, “Have the salmon.” So I did, and I didn’t like it. The texture, the way it comes apart in these sheet like chunks, and the taste, which sometimes is almost metallic, and the colour, which is  _ pink _ . Pink makes me think of raw things. No, I do not like salmon.

           But he said it was good, so that’s what I get.

Sometimes I have to remember to think his name. Graves. Graves, Graves, Graves. In my mind, it’s  _ he _ and  _ him _ , like he is the definition of a man. I think of men, of masculinity, and his face is the one that automatically comes to mind. His is the face I think of when it comes to a lot of things.

Graves. His name is Graves. And I’m not supposed to be his anymore. He doesn’t want me to be his.

He hasn’t said much today. He asks the usual questions—if I’ve practiced, what I did right, what went wrong—and he still smiles at the answers that please him, and creases his brow at the ones that don’t. Except then he goes back to his food, and he looks so far away. Like I’m not really here.

I’m becoming invisible to him. That’s what’s happening. I can’t cast a Disillusionment Charm yet, but he’s shown me how they work, and I feel like I’m slowly but surely disappearing under one. Like every time we come to this place, I’ll be here, but he’ll see  _ me _ less and less until his eyes see through me completely. Like there’s no one even sitting in my chair.

I will be invisible, and he won’t call me by my name, he won’t call me his boy, even though I  _ am _ , I  _ am _ in ways I don’t know if he even realizes, and then I think I might cease to exist. For the first time in my life, I’ve felt—substantial. Like there’s really flesh and blood to me, like I’m not a walking ghost, and all because he saw me. If he doesn’t see me anymore, then what am I?

I do the only thing I can think of to get his attention. “I went out on Saturday.”

The last time he touched my hand, the last time he looked at me with that gaze of his that saw me and only me, it was two weeks ago. We were sitting at this same table, our table, and I told him about the boy my age who bought me drinks and then made me come in the stall of a bathroom. I came, even though people were pounding on the door, wanting to get in, because it reminded me of the time that Graves took me into the bathroom here. It was so different here, there’s locks and things are quiet except for some soft music overhead, but it was the same because when Graves pushed me down on my knees, he said, “Everyone out there knows exactly what we’re doing. They know exactly what we’re doing right now, and when we leave here, they’re going to look at you. They’re going to look right at you, and know that you did this. Because I told you to.” It was the same because people knew, only when I left the stall of that loud place, there were jeers instead of a few strained glances, and the boy I went in there with kissed my cheek instead of putting an encouraging hand to my back to guide me towards the exit.

The last time Graves looked at me like I was real and not some object becoming increasingly distant, I was telling him about the boy, whose name I don’t even bother with in my head. What does his name matter? I only did it because Graves told me to. His is the name that is important.

When I say that I went out, Graves lifts his head. It’s abrupt. For a second, I see something in his eyes, and I instinctively shrink back from that. He looks angry. He never looks angry at me, why is he—

But maybe I just imagined it. The look in his eyes is gone, replaced by his usual gentle smile. “Did you?” he asks.

I nod.

“Did you explode the wardrobe this time?”

I let out a small laugh. “No.” No, and I’ve finally managed to put that back together. Piece by piece, I made it fix itself. I can do that. Because he taught me how. “I—thought maybe it would be easier if I…bought some new things. So I just did that and left them out before.”

“What did you buy?”

Questions. Questions means that he sees me. “Um—“ I gesture to myself. “Some new pants. Black jeans. It was silly that I bought them, they look just like these ones—“

“It isn’t silly to buy new clothes. And those pants are almost as old as you are.” I blush and Graves smiles slightly. “So I think it’s for the best that you bought some new ones.”   

These are the pants that I wore the first time he took me into his bedroom, instead of everything happening, like a surprise, in his kitchen one day after lessons. He took me into the bedroom, and shook his head as he peeled the jeans down my trembling body, murmuring, “Do you know what you look like in these?” and I had never heard someone sound so  _ appreciative _ of anything I had ever even touched.

“Did you buy anything else?”

“Shirt. Like this one, but black.” I don’t know how to dress. I wear things in white and black and grey and that’s it. So does he, but sometimes there are navy blues, and he looks so put together. I look like I don’t know how to dress.

“I’m glad to hear you went shopping by yourself.”

He’s teasing. He’s taken me before, and I hated it. I hated everything about it other than being with him. I shrug, not having to tell him how awkward and out of place I felt. I’m sure he already knows.

“Did you buy anything else?”

I’m remembering the bite around my wrists, and I don’t want to tell him. Not because I don’t want to always tell him the truth, but because I want it to be him in my memory and it isn’t.

“Credence?”

“I bought a tie,” I say quietly, and put a forkful of salmon in my mouth.

A few seconds pass before Graves says, “A tie?” I nod, flushing. He reaches for his wine glass. “You must have looked very sharp.”

I make an awkward motion with my shoulders. I look like a lot of things, but I don’t think sharp has ever been one of them.

“Black?”

I give my head a shake. “Grey.” I swallow, and look over at him. He’s watching me. Oh thank God, he’s watching me. Is he picturing how I would have looked?

“I imagine you looked very nice.”

He  _ is _ picturing what I looked like. I want to take that, I want to devour it, I want it to be mine, this small thing that probably no one else would ever even notice.

“Where did you go? The same place?”

I give my head a shake, frowning. “No. I didn’t—I didn’t like it there, I’m sorry—“

“No,” Graves says, leaning forward. “No, you don’t have to be sorry. You don’t have to do anything you don’t like.”

I don’t like being apart from  _ you _ . I don’t like only seeing you this one day, I don’t like that you don’t want me anymore, I don’t like that I have to have someone else touch me if I want even a fraction of what I felt with  _ you _ .

I don’t say any of that. I just murmur, “Okay.”

“So where did you go, then?”

“I heard about this place, um…The Abraxan?”

When I look to see if he’s heard about it, there’s a sort of stillness to his face. Have I done something wrong? He speaks, and his voice is as empty of emotions as his face. “You went to The Abraxan?”

I nod, and ask, “Was that wrong?”

He blinks, and sits back. “No, no of course not. Did—“ He clears his throat. “Did you like it?”

I think about it. “Yes,” I say, and I have a sip of my wine. I’ve learned to like the taste of it. This and coffee. They were never things I had before him. My world seemed so small before him.

“What did you like about it?”

He’s always been like this. Asking me questions. From the first day we met. It scared me at first. No one had ever been interested in what I had to say before. He was. In the beginning, he was the person with questions. Then he was the person who knew things. Then he was the person I belonged to.

What is he supposed to be to me now?

“I…liked that it was more like this.” I glance around. The walls are black here, and a shade of grey blue, and the tables are dark, and so are the chairs. There’s just enough light that it isn’t hard to see, but no more than that. At The Abraxan, it was like that except for the light. It became just dark enough to hide things. But it was quiet, only murmured conversations and a piano coming from somewhere. “I could—hear myself think.”

Not like the other place. Just noise and chaos and yelling over the music and hating every second because it was a repudiation of everything Graves, and still it was what he wanted me to do.

“Did you talk to anyone?”

I scrape the tines of my fork over my potatoes. I shouldn’t play with my food. But it gives me a second to try and think of what to say. I know what I’ll say—the truth—but how to say it. That’s another thing I’ve started to learn by watching him.

“I did.”

Graves has another bite of his steak, saying offhandedly, “How was that?”

He wasn’t you. “Fine,” I say.

He looks at me from under his brow. “I seem to recall a few conversations we’ve had about monosyllabic answers.”

Teasing. He teases, but not in a mean way.

I did nothing wrong. Maybe it feels that way—because it wasn’t him—but he told me to do something, and I did. That’s what counts. Isn’t it?

Hesitant, I ask, “Do you—want to hear about him?”

He stills, and looks across the table at me. Oh no. I’ve done something. I’ve done something wrong—I did what he told me, I did, I  _ did _ —

“Him, is it?” Graves says.

That’s why I was there. That’s what you wanted me to do, so I did it. I don’t understand—I did what you wanted—

“Is—that okay?”

I don’t know if I’m asking if it’s okay, what I did, or okay that I tell him. I don’t want to tell him, because I don’t want to talk to him about someone who touched me who wasn’t him. But I do want him to know that I listened, that he gave me instructions and I followed them.

“Of course. You can tell me anything.” He rests an arm on the table, looking at me expectantly. “Tell me about him.”

I don’t want to. I could say no. I own my life, like I own my magic. That’s what he taught me.

Except it’s not true.

“I, um…I sat at the bar because…like, it’s all booths in there? Have you ever been in?’

He gives his head a nod. I think of him in there. How perfectly he would fit. I felt so out of place. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing. It was a room full of confident men, all exuding something like  _ him _ , but only an echo.

“I sat at the bar. I didn’t know what to order, because—you said I should try things. And…the bartender, he wasn’t really paying attention to me. He was talking to someone—“ Someone confident, someone handsome, someone everything that I’m not. “And so I couldn’t ask him. Then this man just came up and asked if he could join me. And that’s why I was there, so I said yes.”

I have to work not to wring my hands. Not to come off like a complete mess in this beautiful place he always brings me to, my favourite person in the world.

“Was he nice?”

I pause.

There’s not just wine, there’s water too. I have a drink of that.

“Credence,” Graves says, and I hear the threat of an order there. “Was he nice?”

“Not exactly.” I think about it, then I say, “No.”

I notice that Graves is holding onto his utensils very tightly. “Tell me.”

“He…sat with me. We talked a little. He asked some questions and I answered. I asked him questions, and he answered those. He ordered me drinks. Paid for both of them. Only two because…”

Not all the water sipping and pushing food around my plate can get me out of this one. “Because—?” Graves says, and it is not a question, it’s an order.

I cough and reply, “He said he wanted me to have a clear head to say yes to the things he wanted to do to me.”

We look at each other. His eyes are piercing through me. I gaze at him only because it’s a thing he has told me to do. He likes when I look people in the eyes. When I look him in the eyes.

So the guy on Saturday, I looked him in the eyes when he said that to me.

“What—kind of things?” Graves says, his voice strained.

I balk. Of course I do. It’s quiet here, but there are people seated about ten feet from us. Before I can register an objection, Graves has taken out his wand, and everything goes silent around us.

It’s just me and him, and the words he wants to hear.

As he slips his wand away, he repeats, “What kind of things?” It’s said with a slight smile, but I know when there is no room to retreat.

“He…asked if I liked to be tied up,” I say, my cheeks going bright red.

Graves shouldn’t have to ask more than that. He knows I like that. I can’t even count on two hands anymore the number of times he put ropes around my wrists and ankles and had me spread out for him on his bed, stretched in four directions and waiting for him. How it was the first time I asked him to do something again, because I liked it so much. Before that, he would always have to prompt me. Did I want this, do I want that, or simply,  _ tell me what you want _ . But that day when we came through the door, I said to him, “Would you tie me to the bed again?” and the answer I got was a kiss that almost made me forget my own name.

“What did you say?”

I mumble, “Yes. I said yes.”

After a moment, Graves says, “But he…wasn’t nice?”

“Not really. He seemed more…he didn’t really seem to care what I had to say. He just wanted…and I guess he could tell what I was willing to do by looking at me.” I ask, because I honestly don’t know, “Is that how it works sometimes?”

I don’t know if it’s the light, but Graves suddenly looks like he’s trying hard to breathe. Then a shadow shifts, and the look is gone.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But Credence—if you don’t like someone, you shouldn’t have to feel pressured to do something with them.”

For a moment I want to throw something at him. It’s so sudden and fierce that I feel my magic start to reach out to do just that, and I grab it at the last second.

I snatch up my water glass, and have a few gulps.

“Credence—you know that you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.”

I don’t  _ want _ to be apart from him. I don’t  _ want _ to go to these places. I don’t  _ want  _ other men to touch me, men that aren’t him. But I do it because he told me to. And I  _ want _ to do what he tells me.

“I know that,” I say, my voice small.

“Did you—leave with him?” I nod, and Graves bends his head a moment. It looks like he’s biting back words, and I get the sense that I’ve done something wrong. I don’t see how—I did what he said. “Credence—my boy, if you have a bad feeling about someone, if you don’t like them, you shouldn’t leave with them. If you don’t want to go with them, you don’t have to. That’s not what—“

“I wanted to leave with him,” I say.

He gazes at me.

“The things he said—I like those things. I liked when we did them, and I wasn’t planning on seeing him again if I didn’t like it when he and I did it. But I did. I had a good night. Even if he wasn’t nice.” Then, because even though I worship this man, I can’t help but be angry at him too, I say, “Besides, I’d seen him before. I knew who he was. I mean—he was a stranger, but I figured he could be trusted.”

“Why did you think that?”

I reach for my wine glass and say, “He works for the DMLE.”

There is a definite twitch in his jaw. It’s not the light. He is reacting to what I’ve done, and he doesn’t like it.

Is—is he  _ jealous _ ?

That’s not possible. He ended things with me. He told me to do this. He said to meet people my own age, and I did. I did things that I liked, that I learned that I liked with him, only I did them with another person. He said that was what he wanted.

And now he’s jealous?

“Oh?” Graves says.

I nod. “I’d see him sometimes, when I’d wait outside the building for you. He always left a few minutes before you did.” I try for a small joke. “If you can’t trust the DMLE, who can you trust?”

He doesn’t smile. “What’s his name.”

It is not a question. It’s not even an order. It comes out completely flat. I’ve never heard him like this before.

I offer, “Um, he only said it once. I think it was Sylvester?”

I can see the exact moment Graves figures out who I’m talking about, and a moment of utter silence passes. Like he’s picturing him. Several inches taller than me, dark hair, dark eyes, dresses well. Moves with absolute confidence, only more like a shark than anyone I might know.

Not exactly like Graves. Maybe around the edges. This man, he was a few years older than me. Maybe 27, 28? I think that when Graves was that age, he would have been...less obvious. By then, he would have known to take his time. I don’t think he would have ever walked up to someone in a bar, and twenty minutes later told them every deviant thing he wanted to do. 

But thinking about it...if he did that to me...

“Sylvester Vernon?” Graves says, getting my attention again.

I shrug, pretending like I wasn’t thinking about him. Which I do. A lot. “I’m not sure. He never said his last name. I figured it didn’t really matter.”

Graves makes a sound at the back of his throat. I take another bite of the fish I don’t like, and wait for his next question.

“And you left with him?”

“Mhm.”

“Did you go to his place or yours?”

“His. I don’t…I didn’t really like the thought of him being in my place. I don’t like anyone being there besides me. Or you, of course.”

“Was his place nice?”

“Yes. Or at least—I think so.” I pause, then admit, “He didn’t turn the lights on. He just sort of led me through there in the dark. But I think it was nice.”

“And that didn’t bother you?”

“The dark?”

“That you didn’t know.”

I look at him a moment. I’m not sure why he doesn’t understand. “He told me what to do,” I say. Graves, of all people, should understand what that means to me. I was following orders. I  _ like _ following orders.

This is all affecting him. I can see it. His shoulders are rigid and he is breathing in and out in a steady rhythm, like it’s something he’s forcing himself to do. “What else did he tell you to do?”

I rub my fingertips against the table cloth. I think back over the night. “A few things.”

“Like  _ what _ .”

His voice. It sends shivers through me. I want  _ that _ voice telling me what to do and how to be. I want it to give instruction and shower me with praise. Maybe I can’t have his hands on me anymore, but I can still have that voice, and it wants answers.

So I’ll give answers.

“To take off my clothes. To get down on the ground. He wanted me to say yes to everything he asked me to do. He wanted me to repeat it. To make sure I understood.” I look at Graves from under my brows and say, “I did what he told me to.”

I did what he told me to because it was the closest I could get to  _ you. _

__ __ When he started telling me what to do, I wanted to slump in relief. It wasn’t the person I wanted to hear giving instruction, but someone was taking charge. I crave that. I love that. I  _ need _ that. I stripped my clothes off the way he asked. I kneeled down on all fours like he said. I said that I liked when he touched me, when he ran his hands all over my body, because I could close my eyes, and pretend it was someone else’s touch.

But I did genuinely like it.

“Did he tie you up?”

I flush again. “Not…exactly.”

Graves gives his head a shake, but his eyes never leave my face. “What does that mean? Did he use a spell? Or something else?”

I’m being interrogated. I’m not very smart, so it took me a long time to realize it, but he’s looking for every single shred of information that he can find. I don’t know why. He said it was over. He said he’d behaved badly. He took away my one good thing.

And now he wants to know everything that I do with someone else? Why?

“He had these—handcuffs.”

For a second I think he might bend the steak knife in his hand. I wonder if he thinks that too, because he lets it go, and his hands drop under the table, where I can’t see them.

“Handcuffs,” Graves says, and I’m surprised by how small his voice sounds. “That’s quite a leap for someone so new to things.”

“Not…I mean, not really. We…we did plenty of things together, didn’t we? And I knew I liked being tied back, and you said to try new things, so…I tried something new.”

“Did you like it?”

I would have liked it more if it was with Graves, but—

Wait.

The way he’s watching me. The way he’s asking. I know this. I’m so stupid, I know this.

He’s turned on.

It turns him on to hear what I did. I don’t know if it’s because I was with someone else or because it was me doing it or what I actually did, but I can tell from his eyes, the tone of his voice. The way he’s listening to me, the way his body holds itself, I recognize it.

I say, “Yes,” to see what he does.

He doesn’t move a muscle. “What did you like?”

We would do this all the time. He would ask these questions after, before, even in the middle of things.  _ What do you like, tell me what you like, tell me _ . I would tell him, and it made everything even better than it already was.

If I can have this effect on him, can I…I mean, it has to be too much to hope for, but…does this mean he still wants me? If I can make him feel, is there some way to get him back?

Right now, I’ll settle for his undivided attention, but if there’s the possibility for more, I will do  _ anything _ .

I can’t believe I’m about to do this. Deep breath.

“I liked…do you remember, after I vanished the clock instead of transfiguring it?”

What started as him half teasing, half lecturing had led to us leaving a trail of clothes across the apartment, hands everywhere, me keening against his mouth and pushing my body up against his. I wouldn’t stop touching him, even when he told me to stop, not because he wanted me to, I think, but because he wanted to know I’d do what I was told. And when I didn’t, he pushed me down on the ground. He bound my hands together with a tie from his closet, because I couldn’t keep them to myself.

Then he took me like that, on the floor. I was braced on my forearms, rocking back against him every time he thrust into me, wanting to take him deep into me as I could. I’m not quiet during sex. Ever. That time, I moaned each time we moved together, and after he was spent inside me, he squeezed my side and told me that the noises I made were fucking indecent.

I can tell that he knows what I’m talking about, so I go on. “It was like that. On the floor, him behind me. Only my hands were behind my back. He’d sort of—“ I gesture between my wrists. “Hold the part there while he…you know.”

“Did you like that?” Graves asks.

Did I like it. My brain bouncing back and forth between the moment and wishing it was this man buried inside me, the wince of pain and the memories of what had brought me to that place. It could have been better, but… 

“Yes,” I say, and drink some of my wine.            

Graves doesn’t say anything. He isn’t quite meeting my eyes. He’s looking at a point below them, and I can see that he’s trying to breathe evenly.

I push.

“There was one thing,” I say.

“What’s that?”

I tug down the cuff on my left arm, seeing his pupils flare. I do the other one, and show him the purple tinge around my wrists. Laying my arms on the table, extended towards him, I say, “They were worse when it happened, but they’re not going away as fast as regular bruises. I don’t know if that’s something he did.” I want to know if he’s jealous, so I say, “Marked me or something.”

Graves’ jaw sets in a way that makes my insides light. He  _ is _ . He’s jealous. I’m his boy. No matter what he might think, I am his.

“I tried some of that stuff that you gave me,” I lie, “but it didn’t really seem to work.”

I didn’t try at all. I wanted to come to this dinner wearing the marks someone else put on me, to prove to him that I listened. That I obeyed.

Will he…I want him to…

His hands come up, and he slowly wraps his fingers around my wrists. I lose that tight feeling I get every second he’s not touching me. Graves twitches his thumbs against my bruises, and almost purrs, “Poor boy.”

I feel his magic seep in through my skin. When he does something like this, I’ll feel it for days.

I whimper, and his eyebrows furrow. “Did that hurt?”

No. It didn’t  _ hurt _ . It’s making a line straight through my center and working its way downwards. It’s him, it’s his magic in me, and I want it. I want it  _ badly _ .

“A little,” I whisper.

He tsks from the side of his mouth, still rubbing his thumbs against my skin. I don’t even have to look to know he’s healed it by now, but he’s still holding me. My skinny wrists in his strong, sure hands.

“Better?” Graves says huskily.

I give a single nod, gazing at him. “Yes, sir.”

Then, all of a sudden, it’s like the spell has been broken. He almost startles back, letting me go. He leans back in his seat, picking up his glass.

“You should be careful,” he says, his voice back to normal. “It’s good that you know what you like, but other people your age might not be clear on all the rules. Just make sure you take care of yourself next time.”

He puts down the glass and picks up his fork, and I am vibrating inside from the loss of his touch.

“Next time,” I say quietly.

Graves nods. “Maybe this one wasn’t nice, Credence, but you’ll find someone who is. Someone who can give you what you need.” He gives me a little smile, then goes on eating, like nothing happened.

I’m still half hard from his magic, and thrown from his opposing moods. I sit back, confused.

He wants me. I know that. I saw that.

He wants me, but he thinks it’s wrong. He thinks he’s doing me a favor. That’s what this is. And I can’t argue with him. I don’t know how. Words aren’t my strong suit.

But I have something else. I don’t think about it much, because I’ve never really thought that I’m much of anything. Except I have this: I’m a survivor. I’ve held on through things that not even he knows about, and if he thinks I’m going easily—

I will not go easy.

I own my magic. I own my life. I own my power. And he owns me. I just need to figure out a way to remind him of that. Maybe it will take time, but that’s okay. I can’t argue, but I can do what I’m told.

Yes. I’ll do  _ exactly _ what he tells me.

This is a very new feeling. I think I have a plan. I know exactly what I want, and I’m going to get it.

“You’re right,” I say, and take up my fork again. “I’ll try again. I’ll try as many times as I have to before I find what I need.” I see him pause, and I give him a smile.

I eat my potatoes, and I don’t take another bite of salmon.


	4. Chapter 4

On Credence’s plate sit two delicate, crusted lamb chops, and Graves wants to know why.

He’s wearing a deep red dress shirt instead of his typical neutral tones, silver buttons gleaming down the length of his torso and, damnit, Graves wants to know why.

When Graves had picked him up that evening, Credence had winced as he folded into the passenger’s seat, rubbing idly at one of his knees throughout the whole ride. Graves nearly drove off a viaduct from the distraction of wondering  _ why _ .

If this were a case, if it was his job to extract all the relevant information, he’d have it already. He’d maneuver and coerce and threaten his way to the answers he wants. But he can’t do that here. Credence isn’t a suspect, he’s a man. A free man. His own man. Just as Graves always wanted.

Still, it takes an incredible amount of restraint not to haul Credence up by his collar and demand to know everything. Every last bit, until Credence runs out of words. 

Of course, he’s sure it’s all got to do with Credence’s new… lifestyle. The one Graves pushed him into, like a mother bird shoving her chicks from the nest. He knew Credence would fly. He just didn’t think, never considered, that Credence would fly  _ away _ .

Following that first dinner after the shift in their acquaintance, when Credence timidly spoke of his experience in the bathroom stall, Graves couldn’t sleep for wondering at all the things he didn’t know _. _ His mind turned it over and over all night, filling in the gaps with particulars that were both distressing and arousing in turn, until it was time for him to go to work. He’d accomplished absolutely nothing that day.

Later that night as he sat in his lounge chair, nursing a pint of scotch, he’d decided that, as it turns out, he didn’t need to know. That Credence’s fumbling encounters were of no interest to him, not really. So what if Credence received the occasional blowjob from some eager young thing? He deserved to. Graves was happy for him. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. Best to just put it out of mind.

But that was before Credence told him about the man from The Abraxan.

That was before Graves saw the bruises on those fragile, pearlescent wrists.

Fucking Vernon. The day after  _ that _ revelation, Graves had skipped work altogether, for fear of what he might do if he’d run into the bastard. After having indulged in fantasies of shackling  _ him _ in some dusty, forgotten corner of the MACUSA’s basement archives until he learned not to touch things that  _ don’t belong to him _ , Graves figured avoidance was probably his best bet.

In order to cease being angry - and he had to, he was running out of glassware - he reverted to his previous state: tormented by curiosity. Credence’s retelling had been much more descriptive than the first time, but surely there were omissions. Thinking of what Credence had done was immensely painful, but it was more painful still to think of all the things he didn’t know. To be on the outside looking in on something that he was once intimately privy to. He wanted to know things it was impossible to know, like how loud Credence had been, or how fast his heart had been beating, or whether his toes had curled when he’d come.

Whether he’d intoned Vernon’s name -  _ Sylvester, Sylvester _ \- with desperate, breathless awe, the way he always chants Graves’. Well, the way he used to.

“--Mr. Graves?”

And it’s so close. Not quite the right cadence, but the way his name slips from Credence’s mouth still sounds like a revelation. His surroundings rush back to him all at once.

“I’m sorry, my boy. My mind was elsewhere. You were telling me about your sister?” 

It’s not like him to tune Credence out. Usually he finds himself hanging on Credence’s every word, no matter how seemingly mundane. But he doesn’t care about Modesty right now. Can’t find space in his congested thoughts to care. His head is an endless well of questions, repeating over and over like a skipping record. Who has he been with? Who has touched him? In what ways?

“I asked if you’ve ever been to the Central Park Zoo. She’s going with her school. I’ve never been there.”

Graves picks up his utensils and commands himself to focus. He has to focus on Credence. This is the only time with him that he gets now. Slicing into his steak, he says, “I have been there, though not for many years.”

“I don’t think I’d like it much,” Credence says thoughtfully, picking up his fork and following suit. He hasn’t touched his lamb yet, but instead has been eating around it. The potatoes, the carrots. Graves wants to scream. Does he not like lamb? If not, then why did he order it? Nothing makes sense. He has to focus.

“No? Why’s that?”

Credence considers while he chews, and then says, “All those wild things locked up in those small spaces. People pointing and staring like there’s something wrong with them, but there’s not. They’re just animals. They’re natural.”

“Maybe people like to look at them because they’re beautiful. And strong,” Graves says, watching Credence carefully.

Credence’s mouth quirks down in a small frown. “They still don’t belong there. They’re trapped and they don’t even know it.”

_ Just like you were _ , Graves thinks, with a brief, sharp anguish.  _ Until I set you free. _

“That’s very wise, lad,” he says, softly. “I don’t like the zoo either.”

“Do they have anything like a zoo in the wizarding world?” Credence asks.

“Actually, no,” Graves says, savoring Credence’s small smile of approval. Credence loves being magical. Graves always wants to provide him with more reasons to love it. “But we learn about all sorts of magical creatures in school. The professors bring them right to class. Even dangerous ones,” he teases, his voice going low and conspiratorial.

“Really? What’s the most dangerous creature you’ve met?”

_ You _ . “Let’s see,” Graves says, pausing to consider the question. It’s difficult, however, to dig through his memories when Credence is looking at him like that, eyes round, lips slightly parted in fascination. “When I was in my fifth year at Ilvermorny, my professor brought a Nundu to class. It’s like - a leopard, but covered in spikes. Its breath is toxic.”

He’s never met a Nundu, of course. If he had, he certainly wouldn’t be sitting here now. But impressing Credence is one of his greatest joys. He wants to dazzle with his answer, and figures there’s no harm in a little white lie.

“Wow,” Credence breathes, his eyes going distant. “I’d like to see some magical creatures sometime. Just… not in a zoo.”

Graves laughs, something he only ever seems to do around this enchanting boy. “You never know. I once heard of a man who had a whole ecosystem in his suitcase,” he says, lifting a brow. And then Credence is laughing too, and shaking his head like he doesn’t believe it, and Graves suddenly wants more than anything to brush away the hair that falls into his face.

Truly, he’s trying his best to stay present, but whatever Credence says next, Graves doesn’t catch. He’s thinking about Credence’s hair, and wondering if whoever touched him last knows how Credence’s legs go shaky and weak if you sweep it aside and breathe on the back of his neck. A violent shudder goes through him at the thought. That knowledge is  _ his. _ He was the one who discovered it, one evening, while Credence stood in front of his fireplace, tossing in handfuls of floo powder just to watch the bursts of emerald flame. He’d been so swept up in pure, delighted curiosity (“So you mean you can  _ call _ someone through the  _ fire _ ?”), Graves couldn’t help but to step in close, nose his way into Credence’s hair and press his lips to the warm skin at his nape. Credence would have collapsed on the spot, were it not for Graves holding him tightly around the middle. Graves was a pioneer, Credence’s body the open sea. That day he made that discovery, he’d tucked the coordinates away in the safest recesses of his mind. Though Credence no longer belongs to him, he hopes, foolishly, that perhaps that patch of land on the back of his neck still does.

Maybe it does. He doesn’t know. There’s so damn much he doesn’t know. He swore to himself he wouldn’t ask, that he’d let Credence broach the subject like before, but when Credence reaches under the table to massage his knee for what seems like the hundredth time that night, he’s had enough.

“I see you’ve been shopping again,” he blurts out, his heart hammering erratically behind his ribs. Something flashes across Credence’s face, too quickly to register. 

“Oh,” Credence says simply. He glances down at himself, eyes traveling over his dark crimson sleeves as if he’d only just realized what he was wearing. “Not exactly.”

“Well, it must be new. I’d remember seeing you wear that,” Graves says, feeling a tug of uneasiness in his gut. It’s not as though Credence doesn’t look good in it. In truth, he looks - unbelievably tempting. The way the red offsets his dark features makes him look like--

“It was a gift.”

Graves sets his feet firmly on the ground and tries not to jump to any conclusions.

“A gift,” Graves repeats. “It’s quite - tasteful.”

Credence blushes just a tad and says, “I think so.”

Percival Graves is many things, but dull isn’t one of them. He knows Credence doesn’t have a very expansive social circle - it was for that very reason Graves decimated his own life this way. The shirt couldn’t be from anyone in his pittance of a family. That only leaves one thing.

“You must have an admirer,” he says, and when Credence stays silent, he straightens his spine and says, “Tell me about him.”

He prepares himself for the blow. Answers hurt, but perhaps it’s what he deserves. He’s the one who started this, because he’s a selfish man. It’s only fitting that he feels this pain now. Except, what Credence says is much worse than anything he could have anticipated.

“I can’t.”

“Excuse me?” Graves says, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Credence looks him right in the eye when he next speaks. “I’m not supposed to.”

“What do you mean, you’re not supposed to?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

Graves watches him turn the answer over in his mind, and he feels like jumping out of his skin. Credence has never denied him. Not ever. Not once.

“Well, he--” Credence cuts himself off, swallows, seems to steel himself. He squares his shoulders. “I met someone, but… I can’t talk about him.”

“And why not?” Graves demands. This feels like a pivotal moment, in which patience and understanding are required, but he finds he’s coming up dreadfully short.

“Because he’s - we’re a secret. That’s what he said. He said we’d be each other’s secret. He told me I shouldn’t talk about him to anyone.”

“And is that… what you want?” Graves chokes out. His hands clench onto the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip as he attempts to maintain his restraint.

“It’s fine,” Credence says with an easy shrug, and Graves can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “It’s what he wants.” Then he shifts his attention back into his plate and finally,  _ finally _ takes his knife and fork to one of the lamb chops. 

Graves clenches his teeth to stop his jaw from shaking, then inhales deeply through his nose. “Remember when we talked about how you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do?”

“Yes,” Credence replies, carving through his meat with infuriating slowness. “But I don’t mind.”

It’s so ludicrous, Graves almost wants to laugh. He’s worth so much more than to be someone’s secret - it should be obvious to anyone lucky enough to capture his attention. Sure, Graves hasn’t exactly flaunted him in front of his own friends and colleagues, but only because what they share is  _ private _ , not  _ secret _ . Graves didn’t compel him into the light just so he could be relegated back to the shadows. Merlin knows he’s had enough of that to last a lifetime.

When Credence takes his first bite of lamb, he actually closes his eyes in bliss. Graves is suddenly pummeled with the desire to kiss his eyelids. He wants to lick the taste of butter and spice right out of his mouth. He wants to hurl the rest of Credence’s meal across the room and replace it with salmon and pretend that nothing has changed. But it’s not true. Everything has changed. Except for Graves.

“You ordered lamb chops,” Graves says. He can’t stop pointing out the obvious. Someone has to.

“They’re good,” Credence says, then uses his fingertips to scoot his plate forward a couple inches. “Want to try?”

“What happened to salmon?”

“He ordered this for me last time. He said fish isn’t good for you. Told me I should eat more red meat, and then ordered me the lamb chops.” When Graves ignores his offer, he tugs the plate back and cuts off another chunk.

“There’s nothing wrong with fish,” Graves nearly spits. Credence only shrugs again in response, and for a moment, Graves sees red.

As Credence continues to eat, a tense silence settles over the table. Credence doesn’t even seem to notice it. Graves’ world is imploding in front of him, everything he thought he knew getting lost to the ether, but Credence just keeps on chewing, swallowing, letting loose small sounds of contentment.

Though he’s staring down Credence so hard he thinks he might burn a hole through that terrible, red abomination he’s clothed himself with, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Credence, reaching once again to palm at his knee. This time, he extends his leg as he does it, and his foot bumps into Graves’ ankle, sliding up his calf before pulling back.

“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks, and he knows it comes out harsh, but he can’t control it. He can’t control anything.

“What?”

“Rubbing your knee. You’ve been doing it the whole night.”

Credence hurries to bring his hand back into view, laying it on the table next to his plate. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t notice I was doing that,” he says, then reaches for his water, draining half the glass in one go. He clears his throat and adds, “It just - hurts.”

“Why,” he asks, but it’s not a request. Credence will know it’s not a request. He always knows. Except--

“I’m fine, really. It’s nothing.” He shakes his head and flashes Graves a tiny, closed-lipped smile.

That’s it.

Graves knows Credence deserves his independence. He knows he’s not entitled to a single bit of Credence’s personal life. But in this moment, whether or not he’s entitled is irrelevant. His knuckles throb when he loosens his grip on the table, and he takes a moment to rub at the joints while he tries to gather his thoughts. Then he lays his hands flat, smoothing the tablecloth on either side of his plate, and makes a decision.

“Credence.”

There’s an odd wonderment to Credence’s voice when he says, “Yes, Mr. Graves?”

“Tell me about him.” It’s as firm as he knows how to sound with this boy.

“But I… I can’t--”

“Credence, listen to me,” he says, taking care to enunciate each syllable slowly and clearly. “I want you to tell me about him. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Though it feels like time stands still right then, it’s really just a beat, maybe two, before Credence responds. His eyes never leave Graves’ face. “Yes.”

“What am I asking you to do?” Graves says, and this - this feels better. He never should have let things drift so far outside of his control.

“You want me to tell you about him.”

“Then get to it.”

“I--” Credence’s gaze slips down for the briefest of moments, then snaps back up. “What do you want to know?”

That’s a good question, though not exactly the right one. It’s more like, what does he want to know  _ first. _ He wants to know everything. Absolutely everything that he can. Confident in having landed upon more familiar ground, he takes time to leisurely sip at his wine while he thinks.

Credence doesn’t move. He only sits in wait.

At last, Graves sets down his glass. He keeps his fingers wrapped around the bowl, lazily swirling the contents as if this whole thing were really quite inconsequential to him.

“Where did you meet?” he asks. 

“Online,” Credence says. “One of those, y’know… dating sites.” He makes a face at the term, waving one hand dismissively.

“You made a profile?” Graves asks, though he knows Credence must have. He just… can’t imagine it.

Credence nods.

“What did it say? Your profile. What did you write?”

Unlike the other times they’ve discussed this, Credence has actually done very little in the way of blushing thus far. At this question, however, color begins to creep into his cheeks.

“I wrote… I wrote that - well. The title said... ‘I want to be your baby boy.’ I said that I was looking for - someone to tell me what they want. What they want me to do.”

Graves hates this. He hates everything about it. He wants to put his hands to his ears like a child and demand that Credence stop talking. But he has to know. He has to know all of it. He asked Credence to do this. It occurs to him that he’d had no idea what he was really asking.

“Did you get many responses?” It’s practically rhetorical. Of course he did.

“I got some. I don’t know if it was a lot. How many is a lot?” Credence’s head dips to the side just a fraction. He tucks a lock of hair back, and Graves tries not to watch.

“From what sort of men? Men like me?” he asks, disregarding Credence’s question. His stomach clenches with fear. Wouldn’t it be men like him, desperate and base, that would reach out to something like that?

“No,” Credence says, quick and forceful. “Not like you. There’s no one…” he trails, pressing his lips together tightly before clarifying, “You told me to meet someone my own age. I set it so only people around my age could send me a message.”

“And this man messaged you.”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?” Graves feels himself leaning forward in his chair, as if to better absorb every word.

Credence breaks their mutual gaze then, looking up and to the side. His tongue pokes out, giving his bottom lip an inadvertent little swipe. “He said… that I was beautiful. That he never saw someone as beautiful as me, and that he could take care of me - if I wanted him to. If I wanted to be his baby boy. He wanted me to be. He said if I was, he’d give me everything.”

Graves scoffs. “Anyone who’d offer ‘everything’ is a either liar or a fool. ‘Everything’ is an empty promise.”

“Well, that’s what he said,” Credence replies, meeting Graves’ eyes again. “And then he asked if I’d like to go out with him.”

“And you did.”

Credence nods, and Graves thinks what to ask next. This time, he won’t make the mistake of asking for a name.

“Where did he take you?”

“He took me shopping,” Credence says. “First. He said he wanted me to have something new to wear to dinner.”

How grandiose, Graves thinks. Pretentiously so. Credence has always been more than satisfactory as he is, clothes and all. That this man felt the need to alter his appearance straightaway doesn’t bode well, to Graves’ mind.

“The shirt,” Graves declares, and again, Credence nods. “What else did he buy you?”

“Two other shirts, a pair of pants - he said I looked good in them. And - some underwear,” Credence says, his voice lowering at the end.

“What sort of underwear?” Graves asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. Black.”

“Is that all?”

Credence hesitates rather noticeably before saying, “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Graves asks, and he hates that he has to ask, but Credence does that sometimes. He doesn’t always tell the whole truth. Still, Credence nods, so he moves on. “And after shopping?”

“We went out to dinner,” Credence says confidently.

“Where?”

“I… don’t remember. It wasn’t as nice as this, though,” he replies, gesturing to their surroundings. Graves supposes it doesn’t really matter which restaurant it was. One that serves lamb chops, he thinks, and has to work to hold back a scowl.

Leaning back in his chair, Graves considers his next question, and abruptly feels his heart plummet to his feet. Trepidation sits like a pit in his stomach, because he knows what comes next. Shopping, dinner... It’s a date, after all, and nothing comes for free.

“I see,” he says, to buy himself just a little more time, to work himself up to it. It was hard enough last time. This time is sure to be worse, because now he’s a man with an unquenchable craving for answers. It will hurt, but he’s past the point of caring. He’s on a life raft in the middle of a salty sea, so thirsty he’s ready to just drink from the ocean until it kills him. Surely death would be better than being surrounded by endless water that can’t pass through his parched lips.

“And after dinner, you went with him to his home,” he says, pulling out his wand. It’s not a question. It doesn’t need to be. Once again, Credence nods. As he does so, Graves flicks his wand, engulfing them in a secluded silence.

“Listen to me very carefully, Credence,” Graves says then, resting his forearms on the edge of the table and steepling his fingers in a show of utmost solemnity. Despite the quiet void they’re in, Graves keeps his voice low enough that Credence needs to lean in to hear him. “You are to tell me exactly what happened there. Everything he did to you. Everything you can remember. If you lie, if you intentionally leave something out, I will know it.”

Credence’s attention is unwavering, his gaze fixed and unblinking, and it is an intoxicating sight. He is going to give Graves everything, everything he wants right now, because Credence can’t deny him. He wouldn’t dare. Graves studies his face, from his smooth brow, down over his earnest eyes, to the pink cupid’s bow of his lips, and prepares himself to receive the words.

“Yes…” Credence whispers, spellbound. “I… we… well - he…”

“Start at the beginning,” Graves commands, but gently so.

Credence exhales deeply, as if he’d been holding his breath, and seems to rally a bit. “Well, when we got there, he opened a bottle of - wine. We drank it out on his balcony, and he was already… touching me. Just, just over my clothes. He said he liked the way I felt, wearing what he bought for me.”

Now it’s Graves’ turn to be captivated. He couldn’t lose focus even if he tried. The whole world is nothing but his enmity, and Credence’s mouth, and the awful, mesmerizing words flowing forth from them. When Credence pauses, Graves doesn’t prompt him to continue.

“Then we… went inside. He sat on the couch and told me to stand in front of him, and he started taking off my clothes. My - my pants, first. Then my shirt. He left my underwear on, and then he put his mouth over them. Made them all wet.”

Graves feels it then, a spark in his chest, threatening to ignite. Every time Credence speaks, he’s only throwing more kindling onto the impending flame. He knows it’s going to burn, but for some reason he still says - “Did it feel good?”

“Yes,” Credence says, and then, incredibly, adds, “It made me hard.”

_ Oh. _ Oh, god. He hates it so much. He hates that Credence got hard for someone else. Someone who buys him red shirts and feeds him lamb and tries to change him into something he’s not. What he hates even more is how his dick twitches in his pants to hear it.

“Did he take care of you?” Graves hears himself ask.

Credence shakes his head. “No, not yet. Then he stood up, and pushed me down to my knees. He wanted me to unzip his pants. With my mouth. So I did, and he - he told me I was good.”

_ You are _ , Graves thinks.  _ You are good. You don’t need him to tell you that. _

“He got undressed, and then he gave me his shirt and - told me to smell it. He said that he wanted me to learn his smell.”

The spark inside Graves’ chest catches, turning into a tiny flame. He doesn’t want Credence to know this man’s smell, or any man’s smell but his own. He wants to douse Credence in his scent, smear it into his skin, so that he can recognize it from a mile away.

“And then… then he took it away, and threw it, and told me to go get it. To… to crawl over and get it,” Credence continues, and Graves can see it in his mind. Ass in the air, long limbs trailing across the floor. He doesn’t want to picture it, and yet it’s all he can seem to do.

“Did you? Did you go and get it?” he asks, and he barely recognizes his own voice.

“Mmhmm,” Credence hums. “I brought it back in my mouth. He liked it. He pet me - my hair. Then he took off my underwear and threw that, and told me to get it. He did that lots of times.”

“Did you like doing that for him?” Graves asks, hoping he did. Hoping he didn’t.

“He told me to do it,” Credence says plainly. “So I did.”

It’s not an answer, not really, but he can’t stop now. Rather, something alights in his mind, a piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

“Your knee. That’s why it’s sore.”

Credence nods. A small part of Graves is screaming for reprieve from this tale, but a much larger part is calling for more, more, more.

“And after that?”

“After that, he… said he wanted to taste me. He spread me out on the floor and he… he kissed me. All over. And then he…” Credence glances down tellingly.

The last time he’d wanted to ask it, he’d held his tongue. Now, doing so is inconceivable. It spills from him all on its own.

“Did you come, Credence?”

Once again, he has no idea which response he’d prefer, but he feels the smallest twinge of disappointment when Credence shakes his head and says, “No.”

Graves’ mouth has gone entirely dry, but he can’t manage to reach for his water. His hands are on his lap, fingers digging into his thighs to prevent him from grabbing his cock, which has become uncomfortably hard, to his chagrin.

“Why not?” he asks, almost sadly, feeling miserably lost inside his own body.

Credence is still looking at him - not through him, not away from him, but right at him, self-assured and courageous. Graves doesn’t know how he can manage it, when he himself feels like shrinking away into nothing.

“Because… he said I could only come if he was inside me. He told me he - wanted me to ride him.”

“And did you?” Graves asks, fingers gouging even harder into his thighs. “Tell me how you rode him.”

“On the couch,” Credence informs him. “He sat on the couch and called me over. Told me to crawl to him, of course, and I… I climbed on top of him, and did it.”

As the fire in his chest continues to swell, Graves is assaulted with one image after another. The long line of Credence’s spine, the taper of his waist. His muscles clenching with each rise and fall of his body, and it’s not  _ him _ , it’s not  _ Graves _ that he’s riding. It’s some faceless man, someone that Graves doesn’t know but detests down to his core, and Graves feels like he might explode, right there, in his pants, in the restaurant, into a trillion tiny pieces that can never be put back together.

“How did it feel?” he asks, or at least he thinks he does. But he must, because Credence provides an answer.

“Really good. I liked… I liked the way he was looking at me, during.”

Which is ridiculous, because who  _ wouldn’t _ look at Credence that way? Like he’s the beginning and end of it all. Like he’s everything.

“And then? Then did you--”

“Yes, then I came,” he says. After a brief pause, he adds, “Hard.”

And it’s somehow the best and worst thing Graves has ever heard. For once, he finds himself at a loss for words. He’s completely frozen where he sits. He doesn’t know what to do now, but luckily Credence resolves that crisis by continuing to speak.

“The thing is… he - he actually did buy me something else, before. I just… didn’t know it. At the time.” Credence reaches to rub at the back of his neck, and Graves almost dives across the table to yank at his wrist. That’s his land, and he doesn’t want anything to venture onto it, not even Credence’s own hand.

“After we were done, he said he… liked me very much, how obedient I was, and that he wanted me to - belong to him.”

_ No. _

“He said he had another present for me, that would… help me to feel it. That I was his.”

_ No. _

“So, he went to his bag, and pulled out a - a collar. And a leash. So that I would be his boy.”

_ No, no, no. _

The flame in his chest is growing into an inferno, licking at his heart, singeing his lungs. Credence is not a pet, to be marched around on all fours, to be kept hidden from the world. It’s not right. It’s not  _ right _ . He wants someone to belong to, that much is clear, but Graves will be damned if it’s this or any other repugnant, low-life bastard who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Credence, let alone touch him.

Credence was his, first. Thoroughly, unequivocally  _ his _ . He was a fool for ever throwing that away.

“Did you put on the collar, Credence?” he asks. His face is warm, his palms sweaty. He can’t move. When Credence answers, his voice doesn’t wobble or crack. He doesn’t look away. 

“Yes.”

Time stands still. The Earth stops spinning. The next question Graves wants to ask is the most crucial of all.

“Do you want to belong to him?”

“ _ No, _ ” Credence says adamantly. “But I just - I just wanted -” he stutters, and when he looks at Graves, his eyes are pleading.

“You wanted someone to tell you what to do.” It’s so straightforward. It’s so simple. He says the words, and Credence visibly droops with relief. 

Graves settles back in his chair and assesses the boy before him, eyes dragging over every part that he can see. He says nothing at first, just - looks. Looks his fill, looks until Credence is squirming in his seat, a dark flush crawling up his neck.

Calmly, he crosses one leg over the other and says in a voice so composed he almost shocks himself, “Fold up your napkin and place it on the table.”

Credence’s eyes widen, his jaw going slack. Graves sees him pull in a short breath before he moves to comply. He lifts the black cloth off his lap and begins to fold it with trembling fingers. He watches himself place it on the table, and then looks back at Graves expectantly.

“Now finish your drink,” Graves instructs, and Credence does. His movements are slow but deliberate. He can’t quite seem to shake the bewildered expression from his face. When he’s drained his wine glass, he returns to position, hands in his lap, eyes forward.

“Your collar is crooked,” he says then, although it’s not, and Credence reaches up to pick at it, smoothing it down several times before he’s satisfied. Once he’s fallen still again, Graves says, “Now I have a question for you, Credence.”

Credence is breathing heavily, staring at Graves with a look that is far hungrier than the one he wore before dinner. “Yes?” he says, under his breath.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

He looks like he might cry, or faint, but he doesn’t do either. Instead, he croaks out a throaty, “Yes.”

And Graves knows just what to do. It comes as naturally as breathing. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” he says, offering a smile that he hopes is encouraging, but that he expects is predatory. Regardless, Credence beams. “We’re leaving,” he says, and motions for the waiter.

Credence is quiet as a church mouse as Graves pays for their meals, hot on his heels as they glide through the dining area and into the empty lobby. It feels just like it used to, anticipation sizzling their flesh, restless tension gnawing at their bones.

When they reach the front door, Graves has Credence pressed flat against the wood before he even knows he’s going to do it, and it’s like nothing else in the world. To have Credence there, attentive and pliant in his grasp. With one hand pinning him back by his shoulder, the other follows a path from his chest to his neck, sliding up to curl loosely around his throat.

Leaning in close enough that Credence will be able to feel the whisper of Graves’ breath on his face, but still far enough away that they can peer into each other’s eyes, Graves says, “ _ I _ tell you what to do.”

And Credence sighs, “Yes, sir.”

“You listen only to me,” Graves reiterates. He needs to. He just does.

And again, barely audible, “Yes, sir.”

“Who do you listen to?” Graves asks, and he knows his boy. He knows his boy will get it right.

“Only you, Mr. Graves.”

The truth is, Graves truly is a very selfish man. 


	5. Chapter 5

I struggle not to make my hands claws in my lap. The whole drive home, I want to wring them, work the skin right off them, because I am so…

           God, what  _ is _ this?

“Lay your hands flat on your thighs,” Graves says.

My eyelids slip shut for a moment. I’m able to relax my hands to rest on my legs.

“Breathe.”

I nod, determined. I’m coming to the far edge of my control, and if I don’t pull myself back, something could happen. When I go off, things don’t just break. They explode.

Which I might. Because he wants me. He wants me, he’s going to tell me what to do, he’s taking me  _ home _ . I shiver, and force my head to turn so that I look out the window, away from him. The sky is dark, but the lights smear past. We’re driving too fast, but I’m not afraid. He will take care of me.

He will take care of me.

I count the pulses of street lights that go by, trying to focus on something other than this thing crawling around inside me. I’ve been without him too long. A day without him is too long, and it’s been over a month now. A month of craving him.

_ Breathe _ . He told me to breathe.

We near the apartment, and I feel my magic threatening to lash out.

“Mr. Graves?” I say.

He makes a small sound, letting me know I’ve been heard, but his eyes don’t leave the road ahead of us.

Swallowing, I say, “Tell me to calm down.”

The streaking lights moving past us in the dark don’t show me much, but I see him pull a sharp breath in through his nose. How far have I pushed him? Does he feel this too? If I was smart, I would be terrified. If the two of us feel the same thing, I don’t know that there will be a building left when he’s done with me.

Or me with him.

He still doesn’t look away from the road, but he reaches over with his right hand, pushing my hair back from my face, and he leaves his hand on the back of my head. “You’re my good boy. You’re my very, very good boy. And I am telling you that you’ll be fine. Do you understand?”

I nod against his hand, and because he says it, it’s true.

There’s still a part of me that wants to leap across the car at him, and I think the sheer force of how badly I want him would probably flip the vehicle.

But he said I’ll be fine. He said it, so it’s true. I do what he says.

_ You listen only to me _ . Those words. Those words, he said them to me. I pushed him and he said the words and he meant them. I did that. All my work, and I made him do that.

He has so much power. I am in awe of that, I always have been. I never really thought of my magic as power. I can recite that I own my magic, that it doesn’t own me, but it feels like a wild thing inside me sometimes, a thing I’ve put in a cage, for its protection and my own. I knew I had that inside me, but I didn’t know about  _ this _ .

He has power, but so do I. I made this happen.

He pulls his hand away from me to steer us into the parkade, and I make a sound at the loss of his touch. “Shh,” Graves murmurs.

I turn in my seat a little to look at him. Right now he looks entirely in control. My north, south, east, west. In his perfect clothes, everything about him meant and carried through. His beautiful black and grey hair, and those dark eyes that aren’t looking at me right now but will be. He is going to look right at me and I will exist.

How could anyone else  _ compare _ ?

The car slots into the usual place, and I want to bolt from the vehicle. Only he deliberately turns the key, the engine a gentle rumble as it turns off. He pockets the keys, then looks at me from the corner of his eyes.

“Tell me what you want.”

This. I know this. We’ve done this so many times, and it’s not since the beginning that I appreciated it as much as now. Now that I know what it’s like when it’s gone, I will never take it for granted again.

I rest my head against the seat, looking right at him, and I whisper, “I want to be the man who does what you tell me.”

In the shadows, I see his jaw flex.

Then he grabs me and everything—

Can’t breathe—

Can’t breathe, what’s happening, what’s happening, where are my feet, where’s the  _ ground _ , what is happening, oh God—I can see his eyes, I can’t breathe but I can see his eyes—

My feet hit the floor, and the lights come on with a snap of his fingers. I almost stumble and fall, but he has me by the arm, holding me up. Everything is still spinning, but now it just  _ feels _ like that. I can tell that much.

Graves puts his other hand to my side, worry on his brow, and he says, “Are you all right?”

My legs are trying to remember that they have bones in them, and my lungs are remembering how to pull in air.

He’s asking me if I’m all right, and I can see that whatever he felt earlier is slipping away for concern alone, so I need to speak. “Was…that apparating?”

“I apologize—I should have said something first. You just—“ He takes a breath, and shakes his head. “You—“

I see a fraction of what I feel in his eyes. I see that something about me makes him unmoored.

I shove myself forward, up into his arms, and I kiss  _ him _ . I hook my hands behind his head, taking in his scent and taste and I will not let him go. I will not let go unless he makes me.

Because I’m  _ his _ .

His arms clamp around me, locking my body against his. He kisses me the way I kiss him, like we’re both drowning men struggling for air. That’s what he is to me. He’s something that is necessary to my survival. I will claw and fight my way back to him if he’s ever taken away from me.

I have power too.

I hear something snap loudly, and we pull back by inches with a start. I look over at the mantel. A vase has a crack down it, dribbling water down onto the floor.

That wasn’t me.

I look up at him, wide eyed. He’s staring at the vase, breathing heavily. His eyelids flutter closed a moment, then I can feel him try to move back from me.

I latch onto his collar, gazing directly at his eyes. “See how I’m keeping control? Like you told me? See how good I’m being?”

His breath on my face. After a moment, he nods.

“Am I good?” I ask. “Are you proud of me?”

Graves exhales, and I see a kind of calm come over his eyes. He reaches up, putting his hands to my face. “You are such a good boy for me,” he murmurs, and I whimper. I need those words, I need them more than life. “I am so proud of you. Always.”

I nod, and I push. “Am I your boy?”

“You’re my boy. My beautiful—“ He leans down, kissing my left temple. “Perfect.” His lips move down to my cheekbone. “Baby.” His nose traces down along my face as his lips return to mine. “Boy.”

I groan into his mouth when he pulls me back against his body, his arms around my waist. I don’t use my hands because all they want to do is grab and tear and he hasn’t told me what to do with them. Once he tells me, I will know what to do.

He moves me backwards, and I do what he wants. I’m pressed to the back of the couch, and I squeeze my eyes closed even tighter. This is how I want to exist. Pinned against him and something else, no part of me exposed to the world. Touching him, and that’s the story of me.

“No one else touches you,” he whispers against my mouth, his lips moving down to my jaw.

“No sir,” I breathe as his hand moves up my side, fingers kneading as they go.

“You only listen to me.”

“Yes sir.”

“Why?”

“What?”

He lifts his head, dark eyes piercing through me. He sees me. “Why am I the only one who touches you? Why am I the only one you listen to?”

The answer is easy. “Because I’m your boy.”

“Exactly,” Graves says, and he takes the front of my shirt in two hands and rips it open.

I gasp as buttons skitter across the floor, but I couldn’t care less about the buttons, because he’s pushing the ruins of my shirt over my shoulders. He watches me the entire while as he peels the shirt down my arms. When it’s off, he glances down at it with disdain. With a flick of his wrist, it disappears.

“You are  _ my _ boy. And no one else fucking touches you. Do you understand?”

I nod, and I want to smile. I want to beam like the sun. “Yes, Mr. Graves.”

“Good,” he says, and lifts me up. He sets me on the back of the couch, and I automatically spread my legs for him. He steps closer, sinking his hands into my hair. I hook my ankles around the back of his legs, and I close my eyes.

I keep my eyes shut, and feel how his hands move over my skin, down my back. I feel how he kisses me, my lower lip caught between his. How his stubble grazes my chin, my cheeks. I breathe him, I feel him, I am whatever he wants or needs me to be.

This is not like with anyone else. Now that there have been men other than him, I know more than ever. It is just him. It will only ever be him.

I arch when he pushes against my lower back. I will react to every touch, every command. I will show how obedient I can be.

“Tell me what you want,” he says into my ear.

“For you to tell me—“ I whine when he puts a hand to the front of my throat and pushes me back. He must be able to feel my pulse beating against his hand. “Tell me.”

His eyes search my face, then a small smile passes over his lips. He moves back from me, and I frown, instinctively leaning towards him. He gives me a look, and I still. With a shrug of the shoulders, he slips out of that long, beautiful coat of his that must cost more than I’ve ever made in my life.

Graves glances down, then says, “Take off my tie.”

I exhale.

I slip off the couch, onto my feet again. I take his grey tie in my hands, slipping it up and out of his vest. My fingers fasten around the knot, then work it open.

I can take care of him.

Once the tie is off and I’ve lain it on the back of the couch, he says, “Vest.”

I nod. I undo each button, and my hands don’t tremble nearly as much as I thought they might. My hands are on him, where they should be.

“Excellent,” he purrs, and I sway with the praise. He takes the vest off himself, tossing it behind me onto the couch. Then he turns his wrists up towards me.

I don’t have to be told. I take the bullet back of his cufflink. That’s what it’s called, this style. I know that because he taught me. Bullet back, whale back, chain link—he has a collection that I would look at. I turn the bullet, slipping metal through the sleeve cuff. Every moment, he watches me.

I do the other, then I offer them to him.

Graves glances down at them, then says, “Why don’t you keep those ones?”

I bite my lip, unable to hide my smile. As innocent as I can, I reply, “I don’t have a shirt to wear them with right now.”

He laughs, then puts a hand to the back of my neck, pulling me close for more kisses. I reach one hand up to his shoulder, and the other clenches around the cufflinks. After a moment, I slip them into my pocket.

My fingers find my way to the front of his shirt of their own accord, and I look up at his eyes to make sure that’s okay. He nods, and watches as I open his shirt button by button.

“Why are you smiling?” he asks me.

“I’m happy.”

“Why are you happy?”

“Because you are.”

I see a flicker of something in his eyes. A moment of doubt. I refuse to let that happen. I lost him once and I will not do it again.

I almost yank the shirt from his pants, hearing his breath catch, and push it back, letting my fingers linger over his shoulders. Where mine are bony, his are solid with muscle.

“Do you know what I want?” I murmur.

“What do you want?”

I pull his shirt off the rest of the way, taking in the sight of his body, and I say, “I want you to touch me.” I reach back, dropping the shirt on the couch without looking away from him.

“Where do you want me to touch you?”

I reach up slowly, watching how his eyes follow my hand. I slip my fingers up my collarbone, then stroke the back of my neck. “There,” I whisper. “Will you touch me there?”

His eyes look almost black, and I don’t know where pupil begins and iris ends. I wait.

Graves blinks slowly. Then he reaches out, taking my wrist in his hand.

He jerks me around so fast that I yelp. But then he has an arm around my chest, holding me in place, keeping my arm pinned to my side. He nuzzles at the back of my head with his cheek, and I tilt my head, baring my neck to him.

When his mouth touches me there, my legs start to give, and a whine arises from the back of my throat. There. There is my favourite place where he touches me. The place that’s his, that he doesn’t think that I know is his.

Like every inch of me isn’t written with his name.

His breath, his mouth, his teeth, all trailing, scraping against that sensitive piece of skin. He has to hold me up. I reach back, and thread my fingers into his hair, and for the first time I want to tell him,  _ you are good _ .

He bites gently into where the muscle stretches, and I don’t even know what to call the noise that comes out of my mouth. He keeps me on my feet with one arm around my chest, and his other hand moves downwards. I can’t focus on that, I’m too centered on the way his mouth raises the tiny hairs on the back of my neck, the soft wetness he leaves behind with his kisses—

His hand cups me through my pants, and I mewl. He murmurs to me, and I writhe against his hand. I push against it, I twist my fingers into his hair. “That’s my boy,” he says. “My perfect, sweet boy. Does that feel good?”

I nod, bordering on frantic. No one can take me from one extreme to another the way he can.

“I asked if it feels good.”

“Yes—yes sir, it feels good—so good—“

His hand moves up a few inches, unbuttoning my pants, and he reaches inside.

I can’t stop myself. I’m turning in his arms, forcing his mouth back down to mine. He wants me. That means I have power too. There is power in being his. There is magic in being his.

He growls against my mouth, then pulls his hand from my cock and reaches behind me. “Up,” he commands.

He doesn’t have to say more than that. All I have to do is hop up into his arms, and he carries me to the bedroom. I’m not small—I’m skinny, but it’s not like I’m small enough to be carried around. He still carries me, though, my legs wrapped around him. And I love it.

I kiss him, and he kisses me, and we go exactly where I want to go and where he wants to go. I’m hit with a sudden wave of relief, that we want the same things again. When we don’t, the world is wrong.

This is right.

I toe off my shoes, hearing them fall to the floor, pushing myself higher on his body. I smooth back the hair I’ve messed up with my desperate clinging. I kiss his cheeks, the side of his mouth, and I worship him.

He lets me down gently on the bed. I’m reluctant to let go. But he puts a hand on my belly, stilling me with a single look. I let him go, trying not to squirm.

For a moment, Graves steps back, and he just looks at me. I’m not much. I never have been. Even so, for reasons I can’t understand, this incredible man wants me. He sees something in me that I never will. So I let him look, and I don’t argue.

He gives his head a shake in appreciation. He does that for me. Taking a step further down the bed, Graves says, “Do you know what you look like to me?”

I shake my head.

He strips off my left sock, then my right. “You look like temptation. You look like a thing I shouldn’t want and would be an idiot for not wanting. You look…like the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” He reaches for my pants and catches my eye. “Did you know that?”

I shake my head again.

Graves takes a breath, hooking his thumbs into my underwear and pants. “Do you remember when we met, and I told you that you weren’t dangerous?” He gives his head a single shake. “I lied.”

He pulls the clothes off me in one quick motion, almost a flourish. He throws them on the floor, like he can’t stand a second where he’s focused on anything other than my body.

“Open,” he says, and I spread my legs for him. I bite into my lower lip, waiting for more instructions.

Then he turns and walks away.

I cut off a cry, wanting to leap off the bed and go after him. But then he sits down on the chair by the dresser. He doesn’t look at me, just leans down and starts unlacing his shoes.

I stay where I am, exactly as he wants me. I’m quivering with want for him. Do I want to go over there? Of course. I want to kneel for him, I want to be the one taking off his things. I want him to stay in that chair, me at his feet, and when he gestures, I want to work my mouth up the inside of his thighs until—

He’s naked, and hard. Like he doesn’t even notice, he folds his pants, then sets them on the floor. He leans back in the chair, tilting his head, and looks at me.

“How much can you take?”

“I don’t understand.”

“If I come over there, what are you willing to do for me?”

“Anything.”

“Anything?”

“ _ Anything _ .”

“And if I hurt you?”

I nod. “Anything.”

“If I go too far?”

“Anything.”

“Not the right answer.”

“I’ll say stop.”

“Are you lying?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like it when you lie.”

I look at him and say with as much vehemence as I can, “Anything.”

Graves takes a sharp breath, then stands up. “Merlin help us both,” he mutters, stalking across the room to me. He shoves one of my legs aside, holding a hand to the side as he climbs onto the bed. I hear the drawer beside the bed open and close. He tosses the bottle in his hand aside, then grabs my wrists. He lifts my hands and almost slams them down on top of the headboard. Spreading my fingers over the top, he looms over me. “Hold onto that. If you stop, I stop. Do you understand?”

I nod eagerly. “I understand.”

I close my eyes, because if I have to watch while those wet fingers work me open, this will be over quickly, and I refuse to let it be over before he says so. I push my head back against the top of the bed, welcoming him inside, biting my lip hard so that I don’t distract him. So that I don’t set off. But the touch of him inside is almost unbearable. Perfectly unbearable.

I made this happen. I wanted this, and so it  _ is _ . That is power.

It happens fast. One minute it’s his fingers, and then it’s him, too soon, too unexpected, and I let out a short, shocked cry. He’s on his knees between my legs, and he slips his hands under my ankles. He brings my feet up over his shoulders. I’m practically in half, straining at the seams, and it is  _ perfect _ .

“That’s my baby boy,” he soothes. “So obedient. So strong.”

“Yes.”

“Too much?”

I’m supposed to say  _ no _ or  _ no sir _ , but instead I give him the truth. “Never.”

The smile that turns up his mouth is absolutely wicked, and I echo it. I roll my hips against him, as much as I can, but in this position I can’t move much. It will be all him. Giving me what he wants, doing to me what he wants.

He pushes back, reaching out to put his hands on top of mine on the headboard. Oh my  _ God _ . I have to arch upwards, back off the bed, head pressed downwards, to make this work. I’m going to feel this for days.

The thought is one of the best I’ve ever had.

He clamps his hands over mine, so I can’t let go even if I wanted to, and he thrusts into my awkward body. This is exactly what I wanted. Me under him, covered entirely. Him in charge.

Like this, there’s no option except for him to go deep. It hurts, every time he moves into me, and I cherish it. I feel him. I feel him inside, in every piece of me. No one else has to understand it, just he and I. He gives me what I need.

“So good for me,” Graves says, and how can he sound so calm?

“Am I?” I pant.

“So beautiful—so strong—my boy—my beautiful boy—“

I feel that too. “Yours,” I agree, whimpering when the bed moves with the force of him. “Yours, I’m yours, your boy, I’m yours, please—“

“Please what?”

“Please, just please—“

He stops being calm. I feel him letting loose of some of that control, and his hands leave mine. Instead, he grabs onto my sides, and he uses them to pull me even further down onto his cock.

I almost let go of the bed, but I don’t, because he told me not to. I slam the butt of my palm against it, but my fingers don’t loosen. We roll and bang together, and it’s not elegant, it’s not smooth, but it is what I want. We want this. We both want this, and I don’t have to pretend with him, and he doesn’t have to go easy on me. I’m his. He can do what he wants.

He’s almost pulling me away from the top of the bed as he lifts me up and down rapidly onto him. I have to curve my back higher, until I’m lifted completely off the bed. I hold myself up. I start to lose my grip. I snarl at him, reclaiming my hold, and he shoves into me harder than before.

“Do you like that?” he asks breathlessly.

“I love that,” I counter. “Do it again.”

He lets out a sound somewhere between laugh and groan, and my head slams back into the board. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” I echo.

“Are you telling me what to do?”

“No—no sir—“

“It sounds like you are—“

“I’m not, I’m doing—I’m doing what you told me—“

“How long do you think you can hold yourself up like that?”

“As long as it takes,” I gasp.

And I do. I hold myself up until my arms are straining, until every inch of me is taut and screaming for every possible kind of release. But I don’t let go. I watch him watching me, I listen to him tell me how obedient I am, how I’m special, how I’m his, and I hold on until it hurts.

That’s what I can do for him.

I see the moment when he’s close, and I know he’ll give me permission. “Are you going to come with me, baby boy?” he says, and it’s almost a growl.

“Do you want me to?”

I don’t know how it happens, but all of a sudden he’s swept me up with an arm around me, slammed me back against the board. My legs splay, and the relief of some of that strain taken away is so sweet that I want to cry.

Dazed, I look at him. He’s close enough that if he bends his head, he could kiss me. “You didn’t let go,” he murmurs.

“You told me not to.”

Graves shakes his head, and says in admiration, “Let go.”

I throw my arms around his neck, and I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the pain and love and his scent and every single fucking thing, and he holds me close as he comes in me.

And I go off.

I am not in control. I am grounded only by him.

I breathe. I breathe because I hear him telling me to. Dully, I hear the cracks.

I’m not sure how many seconds go by before I open my eyes. When I do, I’m still in his arms, still close to his face. He’s struggling for breath too, looking almost as stunned as I feel.

Something falls, and I look back.

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

The entire wall has cracked. A hundred of them at least, spidering out across the whole thing. They’ve even stretched up to the ceiling above us.

I bite my lip, and look at him guiltily. “That was me.”

Graves bursts out into soft chuckles. He bends forward, and gently kisses my mouth. I can hardly kiss him back, I’m so drained. I do what I can, pressing my lips to his.

He pulls back just a little, nudging my nose with his.

I pet the back of his head, and I ask, “Was I good?”

He looks in my eyes and nods.

“Am I your boy?”

Graves studies me, and I wait. Don’t make me go again. Don’t make me go away from you. Right here. This is where I’m supposed to be.

He smiles, and says, “You were good. And you are my boy.”

I slump against him. I am boneless. I rest my entire body against him, trusting him to keep me up, or lay me down. Whatever he wants.

The wall groans, and he shifts. “Sorry,” I murmur.

I go willingly when he lets me down on the bed. “Don’t worry.  _ Accio _ wand.”

I feel the bed move as he gets up, and I open my eyes to watch him. He lifts his wand, moving it with steady strokes. His hair, always so perfect, has fallen to the side a little. I want to reach out and brush it back into place as he repairs the wall. But I don’t know that I can move. Or that I’d even want to.

When the wall is fixed, Graves turns back to me, about to say something. Only he stops, and his face changes.

“I’m sorry.”

I frown. “What for?’

He passes a hand over his face. For a moment, he can’t look at me, and I feel a whisper of panic. Things can’t go wrong again. They just can’t.

Looking frustrated with himself, Graves says, “You were already hurt, and then I—I wasn’t thinking, Credence, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

He shakes his head. “Your knee.”

I say, “What?”

Graves looks at me, and says, “Your knee was hurt.”

I blink, then I remember. And because I’m already in his bed, and I’m his, and I’m exhausted by what we’ve just done, I say, “Right. I made that up.”

He stares at me. He says, “You what?”


	6. Chapter 6

He knows he’s dazed - and how could he not be, considering - but surely he can’t be  _ that _ dazed. He must have heard Credence correctly.

_ I made that up. _

Credence is laying on his bed, and it feels like a miracle. Long, loose limbs, arranged without thought, raven hair falling over eyes that look up at him reverently... so reverently. He thought it was something he’d only ever see again in his memories. And yet, it’s real, and tangible, and right in front of him, and maybe later he’ll weep, when he’s alone - for the time wasted, for this gift that he  _ knows _ he doesn’t deserve - but for now, he only kneels back on the bed and lets Credence’s words sink in.

Laying a hand on Credence’s waist, he idly strokes his thumb over the bone gracefully protruding from Credence’s hip and presses, “What do you mean, you made it up?”

He doesn’t like it when Credence lies, but something in his chest is jittering around, nervous and hopeful.

Credence turns his head, burying his face in the mattress. There’s still come on his stomach, Graves realizes. Inside him, too, and seeping in between his thighs. Graves will clean him, of course he will, but first - the truth.

“My knee isn’t hurt,” Credence says, muffled against the sheet.

Not five minutes ago, Graves was prepared to burrow under the blanket, nestle Credence against him, and sleep like the dead. He already feels the muted throb of the muscles in his arms and legs, forewarning tomorrow’s soreness. He’s not nearly as young as he used to be, and he grimaces at the reminder. 

“Look at me,” he says, because that’s what he wants. He needs to hear whatever Credence has to say, and he needs to be able to see Credence as he says it. It seems to matter enormously.

Slowly, Credence’s head turns. He gazes at Graves out of the corner of one eye, but stays silent. Like he’s waiting for permission, or direction, but Graves just wants all of it. Whatever it is. He’s tired of not knowing things.

“Your knee isn’t hurt?” he prompts, but Credence only shakes his head. “Was it ever?” Another head shake, more hair slipping into his eyes. Graves’ hand tightens on his waist, and that seems to send a loud enough message. 

“I’m sorry,” Credence says in such a small voice that Graves is ready to forgive him without even knowing the extent of his transgression. “I don’t… want you to be upset with me.”

Graves sighs. He wants to explain that his heart is already so full, there’s no room left for anything even resembling enmity, but he doesn’t know how, so instead he uses his grip to roll Credence gently onto his back. He goes easily - willowy and flexible, bared for Graves in every possible way.

Normally he’d just use a charm, but it seems too impersonal. He needs Credence to understand how much his presence in Graves’ bed, in his life, really means. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. He wants to deserve it. Bones creaking, Graves rises and pads out of the room. When he returns minutes later with a warm, wet washcloth, he sees the desperate, searching panic on Credence’s face recede.

Settling back down, he begins wiping along Credence’s abdomen in long, smooth strokes, and Credence’s eyes flutter closed. “Tell me why you lied,” he says, watching Credence’s skin grow cleaner with every pass. The irony, he thinks, of him doing this - he, who contaminates everything he touches.

Credence’s eyes open, wary and watchful. After a short deliberation, he seems to settle on, “Because I wanted you to think my knee was hurt.” It’s not terribly illuminating, but Graves knows sometimes he has to work his way up to things.

Another swipe of the cloth, briefly dipping into Credence’s navel. “And why is that?” Graves asks.

“Because I wanted you to think I was on my knees.”

He feels his heart pick up, trying not to let his confusion show on his face. He glances up at Credence only for a moment as he asks, “Weren’t you?”

“No,” Credence says, and Graves notices his stomach clench underneath his fingers.

“So you didn’t… crawl for him?” Graves asks, though he doesn’t want to talk about that now. Or ever. To prevent his mind from conjuring those images, the ones that make him want to raze the building around them, he concentrates on his task, running the cloth down to the soft flesh of Credence’s inner thighs.

“There was no ‘him’,” Credence says, and Graves lifts his head. “I made him up.”

He doesn’t understand. Nothing about this makes any sense. “What?”

“I… never made a profile. I know you told me to,” he says, an anxious edge creeping into his voice. “And I’m - I’m sorry. I wanted to do what you told me, I tried. I just… I-”

And Graves can’t help himself. Not with the way Credence breath starts coming in short heaves, not with the fear that Graves can feel rolling off him in waves. He sets the cloth aside and crawls up the bed, sitting up against the headboard and gathering Credence into his arms. His boy. His sweet, devoted boy.

Credence burrows tightly against him, face pressed into Graves’ neck, hands grasping for whatever they can reach. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and Graves is so busy stroking his back and shushing into his hair, that it takes him several minutes to realize what Credence is really saying.

“It’s alright, my boy, it’s alright,” he murmurs, again and again, and it’s just as much for himself as Credence, so that he’s not swallowed by the weight of what he’s learned. He thinks of the red shirt, and the red meat, and the faceless man that he so bitterly despised, and feels the inferno of jealous rage rear up in one final roaring blaze before extinguishing completely.

Yes, Credence lied. He doesn’t like when Credence lies but how could that possibly matter when he’s so  _ relieved _ ?

Pressing his cheek to Credence’s head, he closes his eyes and asks, “Why did you feel like you needed to do that? Make up a whole story?”

“Because you wouldn’t... I didn’t know how else to--” Credence is quick to say against Graves’ neck, but then cuts off with an exasperated sigh. He looks up then, and Graves pulls back so he can find Credence’s eyes. “I needed you to see - what it would be like. If I belonged to someone else.”

For a moment, all Graves can think is that he’s - impressed. Credence  _ played _ him, and it worked so magnificently, that here they are now, naked in Graves’ bed, despite his better judgement. It’s true; Graves doesn’t want Credence to belong to anyone else. It twists him up inside to consider it.

He lifts a hand to cup Credence’s cheek, gaze flickering all over his face, like he’s seeing it anew. “You understand why I did what I did, don’t you?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Credence replies with a single, unflinching nod. Then he adds, to Graves’ surprise, “Do you understand why I did what  _ I _ did?”

And of course he does. Because Graves understands what it is to want. He knows what it means to be willing to do anything for it. What it must have taken for Credence to put it all together, to deceive him so thoroughly… such an act could only have come from powerful, powerful wanting. He suddenly feels overwrought, because he wants Credence, too, more than anything else. More than he should. 

Credence is so close, close enough for Graves to see his reflection in Credence’s irises, close enough to feel Credence’s warm breath on his chin, and - yes, he certainly knows what it is to want. The hand on Credence’s face slides around to the back of his head, fingers curling in his hair, and he dips down, meeting Credence in a warm, eager kiss. He can’t answer with words, because he’s not - sure. He’s still not sure if it’s what’s best for this boy, but it’s what Credence chose, so he tries to answer with a deep, resounding press of lips.

Each time he thinks it’s the end, it isn’t. Credence pulls back only long enough for a quick nip of teeth, or swipe of tongue, and Graves can’t seem to convince his fingers to disentangle themselves from Credence’s hair. Graves exhales hard through his nose, breath washing over Credence’s face, and then Credence is sighing into his mouth and climbing over Graves to straddle his lap before he even knows what’s happening. His hands fall to Credence’s thighs, palms sliding up toward his hips, and he thinks that no one has ever fit with him, moved with him, quite like this. Credence conforms into all the tiny spaces that Graves has no idea how to fill.

Just then it occurs to him -- “It wasn’t all a lie, was it?” he says against Credence’s lips. He feels Credence’s mouth pull up in a wide, mischievous smile.

“No, I really did blow that boy in the bathroom,” he says, raising an arm to comb his fingers through Graves’ hair. Graves nearly purrs.

“And Vernon?” he asks, not that it matters. It doesn’t matter, because Credence wants this. Wants him. And there’s nothing he could do to deter his stubborn, clever boy, even if he wanted to.

“Uh-huh,” is all Credence is able to say, because Graves is sucking and biting at his lower lip. A moment later, Credence groans, and the sound seems to reverberate through Graves’ whole body.

Finally letting go, Graves asks, “Did you really like it?”

Credence tips his chin to press their foreheads together, free hand skating up Graves’ chest. “No,” he says, then after a pause, adds, “I mean, it was - fine. But it wasn’t you. I didn’t like it because it wasn’t you.”

“I told you,” Graves says with a small smile, “You don’t ever have to do anything you don’t like.”

His hands are folding around the curves of Credence’s ass, gliding up the long plane of his back, when Credence gets a gleam in his eye and says, “I liked telling you about it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Graves asks, catching Credence’s mouth in a rough kiss. “Like seeing me suffer, do you?”

“It made you want me,” Credence says in a thick, husky voice. “I saw how much you wanted me when I told you about them.”

“I always want you,” Graves asserts, tugging Credence’s body closer.

“The way you looked at me…” Credence goes on, like he hadn’t heard anything. “That’s how I knew. I thought… when you told me we couldn’t… but you did. You still wanted me.” His hips jerk forward in a tiny thrust, and Graves realizes that Credence is hard, his cock upright and seeking. “You hated hearing about them,” he adds, but it almost sounds like a question.

“I did,” Graves growls out. “I hated it. I didn’t want anyone else touching you. It drove me fucking crazy.” He feels Credence’s hand fall off his chest, though the other is still buried deep in his hair, fingers scratching at his scalp.

“Did you miss me?” Credence asks, and his eyes are wide open, boring into Graves’, his jaw slack, practically panting. 

“God, baby, I missed you so much. I missed you every day, I couldn’t breathe without you.” He doesn’t plan to say any of it, it just pours from his mouth, a litany of truths that before tonight he couldn’t even admit to himself. Then Credence is kissing him again with an insatiable hunger, Graves’ world boiling down to the wet slide of Credence’s mouth, the insistent probing of Credence’s tongue.

When the range of his consciousness starts to expand again, he realizes that Credence is rocking on top of him, his shoulder rising and falling rhythmically as he works at his own cock. Heat blasts through him, from his core out through his limbs, arms twined around Credence protectively. This is his boy, his needy boy, who falls apart for him so readily, who makes him feel like the strongest man alive, when he knows he’s weak. He’s always been weak, and never more so than when Credence is involved.

“Then don’t - don’t let me g-go,” Credence falters, his voice strained. “Don’t let me go again.”

“Are you telling me what to do?” Graves teases, but Credence doesn’t return his smile. He just keeps moving against Graves, squeezing and stroking at his cock like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get.

With a frantic nod, Credence says, resolutely, “Yes.”

And Graves knows in that moment that he won’t. He can’t. It was the sort of thing he only had enough strength to do once. Maybe one day Credence will figure it out on his own, all the things that being with Graves keeps him from. Maybe one day he’ll be the one to walk away. But until that day, Graves is going to give him everything he needs - exactly what he needs, because it’s truly the least he can do.

Leaning forward, he whispers, “Stop,” low and vehement, into Credence’s ear.

Credence does, immediately, just as Graves knew he would, peeling his fingers away from his cock with a whine, hips bucking forward in protest.

“Do you want to come?” Graves asks, lips grazing against the shell.

“Yes, please,” Credence begs, genuine and automatic, and Graves takes a second to marvel at the feeling of everything falling into place.

“Then you let me do it.  _ I’m _ the one who makes you come,” Graves rumbles from deep within his chest. Dropping one hand around to Credence’s front, he reaches to take him in hand, curling his fingers around Credence’s cock and holding tightly, but not yet moving. “I’m the one who takes care of you,” he reiterates, so aware of the truth of it that it’s almost painful.

“Yes,” Credence agrees, hastily tacking on, “sir,” as if for good measure.

“Do you know why?” he asks, the same way he’s asked countless times before. He knows what answer to expect.  _ Because I’m yours _ , as always. He knows Credence likes to hear it, likes to hear himself say it.

Except that it’s not what Credence says. In a trembling voice, not quite a sob but a near thing, he says, “Because you see me. You’re the only one who sees me,” and Graves heart bursts with unbelievable affection.

“That’s right, baby boy,” he finds himself saying, barely able to disguise the emotion in his own voice. His hand starts to move, quick and firm, stroking Credence with the same vigorous rhythm that he’d been using on himself just moments ago. Near to Credence’s ear, he says, “I see you. I know exactly who you are. I see you, and you’re mine.” 

Just then, he feels a powerful shudder resonate through Credence’s body, feels warmth spilling over his hand as Credence comes with a cry. At once, Credence collapses against him, and Graves settles back, contentedly supporting Credence’s weight. They lay in silence for a long while, Graves lazily trailing his fingertips along Credence’s back and shoulders, fingering at that spot, that wonderful, perfect spot at the back of Credence’s neck. Credence makes the occasional small noise but doesn’t move at all.

Still, what’s on his mind, he can’t quite let go of. It hangs over him like a dark cloud, and he knows he has to say it. While things are still so open between them. Before things go too far.

In a quiet voice, he says, “Credence… the world is bigger than just me. There's more out there than you know.”

And Credence, brave and unshakable and infinitely brilliant, says -- 

“Then tell me.”


End file.
